The Getaway Plane
by kyamei
Summary: A plane with a leaking fuel tank flies across the desert. Undercover as tomb looters, Peter and Neal sit beside two smugglers ready to make a fortune selling an ancient treasure. Once they reach their destination, they will make their arrest. That is, if they reach it... Set in no season in particular, but possible spoilers for all.
1. Chapter 1

**A plane with a leaking fuel tank flies across the desert. Undercover as tomb looters, Peter and Neal sit beside two smugglers ready to make a fortune selling an ancient treasure. Once they reach their destination, they will make their arrest. That is, if they reach it... Set in no season in particular, but possible spoilers for all. **

**A/N: Hello again! I am very much looking forwards to this second experience writing WC fanfic. It's been a while, but I really wanted to make sure I had quite a bit advanced on this story before I began posting, in order to avoid delays. I alternate between Peter and Neal point of view, usually marked by a line break (though that will also serve as a scene break). **

**For those of you that have read my previous story on WC, this one has a few things in common, like the deeply-integrated setting, although this one is more character centric, and won't be as long. Still has plot though! I hope you'll stick with me. **

**WARNING: I know people are quite annoyed at the Peter/Neal rift that the 5th season has introduced. I have to warn you that in this fic Peter and Neal are not all together in the same page. Conflict drives story, the problem with the series is that they didn't justify the conflict as we would've hoped. In this fic, I try to justified it as best I can. I can't promise success in this matter, but I can assure you it will be resolved in the end. **

**WARNING 2: Might be dark at points. There will be whump here. You've been warned. **

* * *

Peter climbed up the fold-out steps leading into a plane that looked like it had seen the end of way too many runways, and he took his place behind Neal. Both the smuggler, a young man called Charlie, and the Chief of the Operation were inside, strapped and waiting, and when Peter pulled at his seatbelt the hatch was closed behind him, and the engine whirred.

"Get us up in the air, Benny," the Chief called with a rough voice that seemed out of place with the man's short, wiry build. The man's name was Simon Martins, and both Peter and Neal had spent hours trying to guess his nationality and exact age, to no avail. In Neal's words, he had that indeterminable air about him that proved so helpful to men on the other side of the law.

Neal pulled his heavy headphones on and he turned back, his hands holding the steering wheel.

"Wilco, boss," he said, with the same fake accent he'd enjoyed doing for the length of this case. Peter brushed past him, pretending to be looking for something on the empty co-pilot's seat.

"Can you fly this thing?" he said in a hissing whisper.

Neal beamed.

"Of course I can."

"Are you sure?"

"Always! Trust me."

Peter strapped on his seatbelt. He took a deep breath, and he wrung the fabric of his pants in stress as the plane began to turn and take its position in the runway. Simon noticed, and laughed.

"Afraid of flying?" he said. Peter chuckled nervously.

"You have no idea."

Simon slapped his shoulder and stretched himself on his seat.

"Don't worry, man. We'll be out of this hellhole in no time. By the time we touch down at the beach, we'll all be rich men."

Peter forced himself to smile and he looked forwards. There was a long mirror in the cockpit that allowed him to see the face of the pilot — Neal — and despite the dark glasses and the large noise-cancelling headphones he wore, despite his very convincing disguise, he noticed the grimace on his face at the mention of the spoils they carried with them.

Peter had seen Neal's eyes gleam when they first rested upon the goods that now lay in store in the plane's hold, to be delivered to the Boss. Peter reckoned he must have looked like that the first time Neal saw Adler's treasure, awestruck, speechless, filled with excitement. This treasure, though, was different. It had all been looted from a single millennium-old tomb, and the pieces of gold and silver and turquoise that remained, though poorly preserved, were of incalculable value to history. When Peter had seen them, his first thought had been 'these should be in a museum'. Neal's thoughts, he was sure, had not been of that kind.

To the untrained eye, the contents of the four coffin-shaped boxes in the plane's hold more resembled an antique shop's throwaways. The pieces of silver were black and many of them were broken, the brass was green, the gold unrecognisable. It was not surprising, seeing as the entire lot had been buried in the dark bed of an oasis for almost a century. Neal had guessed the original looter must've found himself in need of hiding the treasure, and left no choice, he sunk it all in the muddy waters where no one would find it. Until now.

"How long do you think it will take you to restore the lot?" Simon Martins asked Peter, who shrugged.

"With my equipment, I'll probably have most of it in selling conditions by the end of February."

"That's a long time."

Peter rolled his eyes.

"These pieces are more than a thousand years old. That sort of work takes time."

"All right, all right. It's a good thing we get the first payment upon delivery, huh?" Simon grinned, then craned his head forwards. The plane was starting to slow down again. "Benny, what's the hold up? We should be flying already!"

"Boss, there's…" Neal sounded nervous. "An obstacle…"

Simon stood and hobbled to the front seat. A government patrol car was parked at the end of the runway. Two officers dressed in green, and a third one in black, were standing in front of the car. The one in black carried a rifle.

"What the hell? We were cleared to take off!" Simon grunted and gritted his teeth. "For God's sake… Benny! How much did you pay the airport authorities?"

"Enough, I paid them enough."

"Clearly, you didn't." He shouted a stream of curses and went to his seat, from where he called someone on the phone. Neal turned back.

"Boss? They're signaling me to stop."

"No, no. Don't stop."

"I don't know if I can fly clear of them…"

"Of course you can. Bush pilot, aren't you? Just get going, I'll deal with this. Just get us up."

"Sir, this might be a light plane but we're heavy laden…" Peter butted in. He looked at the patrol car with concern — they were not supposed to be there. He had talked to the local authorities, he was there under their consent, they were supposed to let them through. And he knew enough of Neal's history to know that despite prior experiences with planes, he'd never flown anything larger than a single-engine. He raised his eyes at the mirror and saw Neal adjusting a lever and then thrusting it forwards. Though he looked as calm as ever, Peter could see a crease forming in his forehead that had not been there before, and his hands were not as steady, there was a tiny but noticeable hesitation in his movements.

The engine of the plane screamed in protest and the wheels hissed. They were almost there now, but still the wheels of the plane were firmly on the ground.

"Boss..." Neal said, turning. "I don't think I can clear it..."

"Do it! Get us up now, for God's sake, get us up!"

"Sir, they are armed."

"So?" Simon scoffed and then laughed. "That guy's government. He's never going to open fire against us, they are not authorised for that..."

"If we hit the truck, we'll be blown to hell."

"You'll be blown to hell right now unless you get us flying."

Peter tensed as Simon stood up from his seat, one hand holding on to the straps of the ceiling, and the other tightening around a gun that he pressed against the back of Neal's head. Hardly even blinking, Neal grabbed the lever and pushed it upwards to all it gave. The chief almost got swept off his feet as the plane hissed and the nose lifted, it rattled, shook, veered sideways, and a screeching sound reached them from below. Peter saw the government officials on the ground making a dive for it, but the car remained at its spot, and he closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Please, please, please," he whispered, his head against his knees and fearing the worst. Behind him Charlie screamed, Simon fell back sprawled between the seats, gunfire from below popped against the metal fuselage, but at the last moment the wheels flew clear off the ground and over the patrol car, and they were flying. Peter lifted his head and stared ahead, at Neal's face through the mirror. There was a satisfied smile plastered on his pale face.

"We're clear, boss!" he shouted back. Simon picked himself up from the floor, brushed his clothes, and sat down on the seat opposite Peter.

"That was close," said Charlie, and he laughed in nervous relief, but no one else said a word.

Peter looked out and saw that below them the green farmland and roads gave way suddenly to a desert so empty it defied belief. No more roads crisscrossed the landscape, no more tracks or houses dotted the ground. All that was left was an ocean of tall, yellow dunes undulating like waves as far as the eye could see.

He'd heard Simon tell Neal that they had to keep on heading west until they reached the ocean, and then they should follow the shoreline to the north until the drop-off point, a beach with an illicit landing strip 30 miles south of the city. It was there that the smugglers' job ended (in their arrest) and the real dealers got on, after refueling, for a long flight to New York. As soon they crossed the state lines, Peter had to be ready to make his arrest.

* * *

They had spent months building their covers for this job. Peter was John Hanover, a broke archaeologist hoping to make a fortune in restoring the artifacts that the smugglers had taken from the desert oasis. Neal was Benny Stern, the pilot, chauffeur, bribes expert, and general makes-things-happen man. His identity said he was Australian but for the past week Peter had noticed his accent had veered to a weird cross between South African and Irish, and Peter had to try hard not to laugh every time he spoke. Now, he could only hope it would not fray so much around the edges to make the real dealers suspicious.

Initially, Peter had been the driver, and Neal the expert, but when planes had come into the picture they'd made the switch, and it had turned out for the best. Even Neal would have to admit that Peter made a much better archeologist, dressed in loose dusty khaki clothes, with round glasses and hair all in disarray. His age made him look more professional, and so far he'd memorised his info so well everyone had bought it. Neal, on the other hand, had seemed to actually enjoy his part, especially since he got to call the shots on Peter's actions.

Peter looked out the window 30 minutes into their flight. Below them a line of beaches and rocky heads marked the end of the yellow desert and the wild, breaking surf, and Peter shifted in his seat in nervous anticipation. He looked at the two archeology traffickers, trying to decide which he'd cuff first, as it would only be 40 more minutes before refueling. No matter how many times he'd been undercover, that moment before the big reveal always unnerved him. Blood would rushed to his chest and he would feel the pressure rising up his throat, his nostrils flaring as he took a deep breath in. Adrenaline. He wondered if this was the feeling of thrill before a job Neal had told him about. If it was, he really couldn't understand why he liked it.

* * *

Peter raised his eyes to the mirror again, and he paled. Neal was sweating, his fingers shaking as he struggled with the indicators and blinking lights in the dashboard. He kept pressing into a navigation control button, over and over, peering out the window each time. Peter peered out as well, following Neal's gaze. He could've sworn that the ground was now closer.

He leaned forwards.

"What's happening."

"The fuel intake. I think something's-"

The plane lurched violently, and Peter pressed himself back against his seat. Neal managed to get the aircraft straight again, but the sound of the engine had now acquired a different quality, as if a metal screw had sprung loose and was spinning inside the machinery. A clicking, clacking sound, louder with each passing second, and no matter what Neal pressed in the dashboard, nothing changed.

"What on earth was that?" Simon asked, rising up and standing behind Neal.

"I… I'm not sure," said Neal.

"What do you mean you're not sure! You're the pilot, for God's sake!" Simon screamed and his voice broke. Charlie pressed a hand on his shoulder.

"Relax, Simon, it's just a bit of turbulence."

But an alarm sounded then, and Peter grabbed hold of the armrests in his seat so tight his nails dug into the foam. Dread filled him. A red light began to blink above the glass in the cockpit.

"Oh-oh," said Neal, with a calm voice Peter recognised as fake. He pressed at the blinking red button, but the light did not go off. "It's the fuel gauge, Boss…"

"Why is it turning on now?"

"It says we're running low."

"That's impossible. You told me yourself we had enough fuel for a thousand kilometres."

"And we did! Something… something must've gone wrong during take off."

Simon cursed, and got on the phone again, screaming at someone. Peter stood and grabbed hold of Neal's seat for support. He leaned against him.

"Please tell me you're bluffing. Please tell me this is some plan of yours," he whispered. Neal's face hardened, and he did not look back.

"You said the runway would be clear," he said, and his voice sounded grave, even with a little quivering of anger, or maybe fear. Then he turned, this time towards the traffickers. "The fuel tank's leaking. One of those cops must've had a good aim. We've got twenty minutes tops and then we're going down."

Peter looked out the window again, and now he had no doubts. The dunes below towered much larger than minutes before.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! I'd love it if you'd left me a comment or review in the box below, and I'll see you again in a couple of days. In the meantime, let me know what you think! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Many thanks to all those who've read, favourited, followed, and especially those who reviewed. You light up my day. Now, I have a lot of this story already writted, but I'm spacing it out so it doesn't catch up with me, so you'll never have to wait too long. I know this may be asking a great exercise of patience on your part, but I hope you will bear with me. **

* * *

Neal grabbed the delicate steering wheel of the plane with the strength that came from knowing his life depended on it. He had not yet lost power, but both the engines were running on low, and the oil pressure and temperatures were off. He tried to remember the layout of the plane, and he wondered which side had been hit. He'd veered left as he took off. Maybe he could pump the fuel left to right, and reach the drop off point on one engine.

"I think we have enough fuel to crashland in the nearest road, if I veer East," he said, turning back. "But I can pump the fuel to engine 1 and fly on that. Then we can reach the drop off point, though it will be tight."

"Veer East," said Peter. "It's not worth it."

Simon stood again, and held the back of Neal's seat. "Not worth it? Not worth it what? Saving ourselves from a crash landing surrounded by policemen and then lifetime behind bars? No. Keep the course."

"It's not worth it our lives! We're much further north, we can get away before the cops drop on us."

"I said no! Don't veer East. Make the switch to Engine 1 and keep the course."

"Don't do this," Peter leaned forwards. Neal heard his voice go low and his eyes were begging him. "Please."

"I can make it," he told him. "Trust me."

He smiled again. He felt it was a most convincing smile, this time, and both men backed down, but through the overhead mirror Neal could see Peter's eyes were still on him, telling him to veer east, to take the safe way out. But then they'd have no dealers to catch, no looters to arrest. He could do this. He knew he could.

"Alright, I'm starting pumping the fuel now..." he said, just as he pressed the right command and the engines lit up on the control screen. The levels began to rise in Engine 1, and go down in 2. The Plane began to fly more smoothly, and he saw Peter's face beginning to relax.

Then a wailing alarm sounded, and the levels of both engines dropped. The plane lurched again, and Neal watched helpless as Engine 2 was starved of fuel until it flamed out, and Engine 1 was set to follow soon after.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it..."

"What's happening? What's happening?" Both the smugglers yelled at the same time so it was hard to understand their words. Neal aborted the pump and the rapid drop in fuel stopped, but it continued to leak, and the levels were already dangerously low. He raised his eyes to the mirror and saw Peter sitting stiff and quiet in his seat. Anger was visible in his face despite the fact that his eyes were turned away. Neal had to swallow hard to keep the trembling off his voice, and still he wasn't sure he succeeded.

"I... I don't know! The leak must've occurred in Engine 1 or somewhere in between, the pump caused it to-"

"Fix it! Fix it!"

"I can't fix it!" Neal shouted back. He'd lost all semblance of calm now. "We're crash landing. I need flat ground, now."

"There is no flat ground here! Look, it's all dunes!"

"We need to go East!" Charlie said.

"There's no time now to go East," said Neal. "We'll be losing all gear in a moment, I can't navigate away from the ocean."

"But... but... You have to do something!"

Neal closed his eyes a second, and took a deep breath. Then he pushed the mirror away so he wouldn't be able to look at Peter, and he rested a hand on the plane's throttle.

"Take out those maps in the overhead compartment," he told the smugglers. "I'll give you our coordinates, you search for the nearest flat land."

Simon traced the lines of a map with his finger, then he stopped, and looked up.

"We're dead. We're all dead."

"What? What are you talking about? Simon?"

Neal's shouting drowned Charlie's breathy voice.

"Where should I head! Where's the nearest flat land!"

"There are no roads, we're right in the middle of it."

"Of what?"

"The sea of dunes. The desert."

"That can't be right, what about these beaches? How do people get here?"

"Dune buggies."

"Dune bugg-Oh for God's sake. Is there a sandy beach? A salt pan? I'll take anything."

"There's a plain of sandstone to the North-East but there's a chain of sand dunes in our way, almost eight hundred metres tall."

There was a moment of silence. Then Peter's voice sounded at the back, shrill and panicky.

"Eight-eight hundred metres tall? That's half a mile. We're right by the ocean, you're telling me there's a wall half a mile tall blocking our way?"

Neal breathed in deep again, and nodded. "That's our best chance." He peered down at the soft, waving dunes he was flying over at the moment. "If we try to land here we'll wind up buried."

Simon reached forwards to where the copilot should have been, and peered at the dashboard."

"We're too low. We're never going to make it."

"We need to lose weight," said Peter. The others turned to him in surprise, and Neal thought immediately of the ceremonial mask that they carried in the back among the other priceless pieces, and how it would look once it was restored.

"Are you mad? We can't lose the cargo," said Simon.

"We'll come back for it. It's been in the desert a thousand years, what's a few more days going to do?"

"We'll never find it! We can't do that," added Neal. Peter cast him an accusing glance — clearly he had been expecting his support.

"We have to! For God's sake, do you know what's at stake here? We're going down."

Neal shook his head. He paled at the prospect of losing all those precious pieces, and he wasn't that good a pilot to handle an airdrop.

"This is not an air balloon, I can't just press a button and drop everything."

"Yes, you can," Charlie said, supporting Peter. "We're barely a kilometre above the ground, the cabin isn't pressurized. You can open the back and the lot will fall out."

"I don't think it's that easy…" said Neal.

"No, no way!" said Simon. "We need to make this delivery. Charlie, we need this. You know it."

"Much good it will do us if we're dead!"

"And what do you think Sanderson will do when we show up late, with no plane and no cargo? You think he'll pat us in the back, say she'll be all right mate?"

"He wouldn't—"

"You don't know him, I do."

"Boss…" Neal stared at the huge mountain of sand ahead, and his voice quivered, but no one seemed to hear him. They kept arguing behind, while he tried to force the plane to fly higher. The engine was starting to sputter. The lights on his dashboard suddenly turned off.

"Are you all out of your minds? We're running out of time, we need to make the drop now," said Peter. Again Neal tried to get their attention.

"Boss…"

"If we make the drop, you go with it, Indiana Jones, no need for an archeologist if we've got no loot."

"I have a wife. I have a family."

"So do I!"

"Just make the drop. Do it now!" Peter shouted at Neal.

"NO! Don't do anything!"

"Oh God, we're all going to die…" Charlie covered his face with his hands and whimpered. Neal spoke a third time, shouting above the deafening noise.

"Boss!"

"What?" All three of them turned towards Neal.

"Boss, the dune."

It rose between them and the flatlands, a sheer wall of rock and sand that shone orange at the top, seeming to reach into the very heavens.

"We're on collision course," said Neal. He saw through the mirror how Simon gulped, and his eyes darted to the crates at the back.

"You know we need to drop it," Peter told him. Slowly, Simon nodded, and looked up at Neal.

"Do it," he said. "Do it and get us to the other side."

Neal let his hand rest on the lever that would make the cargo hold doors open, but he waited a moment before he pressed it. He thought, as the boxes tumbled and disappeared into the desert sand below, that the world had just lost it's chance to see something beautiful.

"Now raise the nose, we need to climb," said Simon. Neal obliged, and the engine screamed and rattled, but the plane obeyed. The dune, however, was taller than it had looked from afar. The winds came from the South now, in gusts so strong they threatened to tear them away from the sky, and through some unknown bullet hole in the fuselage dust was blowing in. Neal gritted his teeth and tried to force it, tried to will the engines not to sputter, but sheer will, it seemed, could not actually move mountains.

* * *

Through the mirror, Peter could still see a fraction of Neal's head, his jaw set so tight the muscles of his neck were showing under the dust that coated his skin. His hands holding on to the controls were steady, but strained.

"I think we can clear this," he said, but Peter didn't believe him this time. Instead he took a deep breath, and braced himself.

"You useless son of a bitch!" shouted Simon from Peter's left. His face was red with rage. "Just raise the goddamn nose!"

Neal paid no heed to him, to his great credit, and he did not freak out or let go, he was focused only on the dune ahead. On Peter's right, Charlie remained quiet, wincing at every dive. When they neared the crest, he placed his hands together.

"God help us."

For a second, Peter thought they were going to make it, that they would fly clear off the mountain of sand and glide smoothly down its other side. Then the vast sandstone plain would open up for them and they would manage a safe landing. For a second, they almost did. Then the wheels of the plane crashed against the crest of the dunes, breaking through the perfect line that crowned it, and Peter felt himself flung forwards as if the entire world had suddenly stopped spinning. He closed his eyes, held his breath, and prayed.

* * *

He'd known force like that only once before, the first time he saw the ocean. Not yet twelve, he'd been young but old enough to be allowed to swim on his own out to where the waves broke, and when he saw the towers of water crashing down on the endless expanse of blue he'd thought nothing could ever be stronger.

He'd been reckless then, as only kids can be.

He swam too deep. When the biggest wave of the set carried him to the top, his feet were far from the bottom, and the beach was a distant line. He paddled, and he felt the thrill of adrenaline and overpowering joy as he began to ride it down. But then it curved under him, he fell out of the crest, and the entire weight and force of the wave crashed on top of him. He rolled and spun, seeing nothing but strands of white and grey, not knowing which way was up, unable to scream. The water battered him like a furious monster, wrapping the whole world in a destructive never-ending swirl, right until it spewed him out into the wet sand.

The plane crash felt like that. The hissing, the roar, the crumpling of metal, the heat of the sand, the stinging sprinkle of broken glass and the strong metallic smell of blood - followed by sudden stillness and eerie silence. The first thing he felt was surprise - and then gratitude, as he found he was still alive. He only felt pain in one foot, where a loose piece of heavy crating had landed while the plane crumpled and rolled down the steep dune to the bottom of the narrow "valley" formed between it and the next mountain of sand.

He breathed with relief. He hadn't even noticed he'd been holding it back.

"It wasn't... that rough a landing, was it?" he said, staring at the mirror where Neal's face was shown, but the mirror was gone. His voice echoed in the metal and he felt even more alone.

"Neal?" he said. There came no answer. He tried to move, and panicked for a second when he saw that he couldn't - then he remembered his seat belt. He unbuckled it and fell forwards, as the plane had dived nose first, and he saw with horror that he could not get past the copilot's seat. The cockpit was crumpled against the sand, completely crushed.

"Neal! Neal, oh God!" he gasped, reaching for what remained of the seat and at the same time unwilling to look. But he saw nothing there other than specks of blood covering what remained of the cockpit windshield. His heart pounded so fast he thought he'd have a fit.

It took him a minute to gather himself, and then, puzzled by the silence, he turned back. The plane was resting on its nose in an angle close to 45º, lying on the side of the dune with the cockpit crushed at the bottom. He realised with a start that both seats beside him were unbuckled and empty.

He climbed using the seats and grooves in the sides to reach the tail, and he stumbled out into a blinding sun, already sweating from the oven-like heat of the fuselage. The landscape around him was surreal, moonlike. Behind him stood the steep slip-face of the dune they had crashed against, with its still untouched crown of orange. In front of him was a dune just as tall, but the side he was facing was the windward side, the one that the powerful south wind blew upon day after day, and it was not as steep. Both dunes, running parallel to each other, formed a narrow v-shaped valley that had swallowed the plane hole, leaving it broken at the bottom. Peter wondered if behind the next dune he would see the flat sandstone plain, or if there were a hundred more dunes. Maybe they had never stood a chance of an easy landing. The place was not called Sea of Dunes for nothing.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Again, if you'd like to, there's a box below for comments, reviews, cries of anger, you name it. Whenever you write on that box, I get an email, and that makes me very very happy. I'll see you again in a few days, but in the mean time let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I can't thank you enough for your wonderful reviews. I will do my best to reply to you once I manage to by-pass my office web filtering (I've made great progress). In the meantime, enjoy another chapter. **

**Warning: some blood to follow. **

* * *

Peter walked down to where the sand was harder and the fuselage of the plane provided some shade. He saw the cracked windows of the cockpit from the outside, only barely above the surface of the sand, and he shivered when he saw a blood splatter. Everything was so still and silent. There were no footprints. There were no bodies. The sun was shining fiercely on his face, the sky was so very blue, and the wind even down there was hot and dusty. He thought then, maybe he was dead. But he reckoned he had to be alive, or his foot would not hurt so much.

"Neal!" he yelled as loud as he could, but his voice was swept away by the wind so it was hardly louder than a whisper. He tried to climb up in the sand, but it was like treading water, he took one step and sunk down two. He began to pant with exertion, and his shirt stuck to his skin, white with salt. He wanted to take off his jacket, but he wasn't wearing long sleeves, and the sun was so strong it could leave blisters if he left his skin exposed for too long. He walked on, and was about to try climbing on all fours when a distinct cry of pain alarmed him. It was coming from the other side of the dune that the plane obscured from sight.

His heart drummed. He rounded the caved-in cockpit, terror and anguish pumping in his veins, but when he located the source of the sound he stopped short.

A man lay on his back in the hard sand, that all around him was dark and saturated with blood. He was gasping for breath, while another man held his head and pressed his other hand in what Peter guessed was the source of the bleeding. Letting out a guilty breath of relief, Peter saw at once that neither of them were Neal. The man lying down was Charlie, the one holding him was Simon. Peter clenched his fists. That was a lot of blood seeping into the sand, my God, so much blood, the plane crashed, the plane crashed in the middle of the desert… This can't be real. He thought of Elizabeth, and he wanted to get down on his knees, punch at something, burst out crying.

But he didn't.

"Help! Help me!" Simon called, and Peter blinked and broke out of his daze. He rushed towards them, and saw that Simon's hand was pressed right into Charlie's chest, where he'd been hit by shrapnel.

"If I pull back, he'll bleed out," he said gasping. "But I've been holding it... too long. The sun is in my eyes, I can't..."

"I'll do it." Peter kneeled down next to him, and his knees burned from the sand below him, but he wasn't thinking about himself then.

"Thank you."

Once Peter was pressing down Simon fell back, lying down and holding his hands to his chest. "God, it's... so hot, I..."

Peter kept his pressure, but now that he was closer he could see Charlie was very badly wounded. Unless they could get an airlift within fifteen minutes… It was bad. It was very bad. He looked up.

"I need you to look for my bag, it was in the plane. I need it."

Simon frowned.

"Need it for what?"

"To help him, for God's sake, I've got an aid kit there!"

"Oh, oh. I'll fetch it." He ran through the burning sand with a spring to his step that reminded Peter of Neal.

_Neal._

He looked down at the bleeding man.

"Did you see where the pilot went?" he asked. The man, though barely conscious now, had a quizzical expression. "The pilot of the plane? Benny?"

Charlie tried to speak and gasped, then spat blood. Then he tried to turn and Peter let him.

"Gone," he said.

"Gone? What do you mean gone? Gone where?"

"He—"

"Here, I've got it!" Simon was by their side again, holding Peter's duffel bag. Peter upturned it and rummaged one handed through the contents, until he found the bag he was looking for. He grabbed a wad of gauze and stuck it unceremoniously in the wound already contaminated with dust and sand.

"Oh my God," said Simon. "Charlie. Oh God. Is he— will he make it?"

"I don't know," Peter answered with his teeth gritted, though he really did know. And he reckoned Simon knew as well, only he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to say it out loud.

"He—" Charlie tried again. Peter felt a deep sadness, for he was just a kid really, dragged into this by bad company and the promise of fortune. "Window..."

"What?" said Simon. "What did he say?"

"I… I don't know."

"You don't know much, do you? Oh God, Charlie. Jesus Christ."

* * *

It took Peter a while to realise Charlie had died, and when he did he stared up at Simon not knowing what to say. Simon knew without a need for words, and he pulled back in anger and then cowered in the shade of the plane's fuselage to curse and cry. Peter didn't move for a while. Then, with a sense of weariness and pain he had never felt before, he dug his hands in the hot sand, so it would stick to the blood that stained his skin and he wouldn't see the bright red in them anymore.

Gone. Window. Where the hell are you, Neal? He had to be alive, he could not have disappeared, but he felt it was too soon to ask Simon anything. He stood and walked away from Charlie, and he tried to get his bearings, tried to remember which of the dunes that framed the narrow valley was the one they'd seen in the distance. He reckoned it had to be the one the plane was lying against, but he couldn't tell for sure. How did Neal get out of the cockpit? And, more importantly, why did he leave? He would've had to climb back, right past where Peter sat. Why would he leave?

"I'm going to have to tell his sister. Jesus…" Simon's voice broke through the sound of the hissing wind, and Peter turned.

"I'm sorry."

"What the hell for? You didn't crash the plane, did you? Goddamn pilot did. Got himself buried in the sand, the useless bastard."

"He's in the cockpit?" Peter's voice quivered as he asked the question, but Simon didn't seem to notice.

"Should be. Unless he made a dive for it, how should I know? I woke up and found Charlie lying by the cargo door like he'd crawled there, he was alone, oh, for God's sake…" he cast a glance at his partner in crime, and he looked away in shame before his glassy eyes became too obvious. "This is so messed up."

"How far from here is the nearest road?" Peter asked.

"Too far. Unless you can find four day's worth of water and a handheld GPS in that plane, we're done for."

"How about the phone? You had one before we crashed, was it a sat phone?"

Simon scoffed, and kept flicking sand off his clothes.

"What does it matter..." he said. "Dropped it, didn't I? Don't know where it is anymore."

Peter stood, and approached the plane.

"I'm going to look for it," he said. He needed to find a way to contact Diana, and he needed to go look for Neal. That phone had to be somewhere in the crash.

Peter searched for 20 minutes, before giving up. When he returned to the shade at the bottom of the dune, he was sweaty and exhausted, and his foot throbbed as though a grizzly bear was gnawing at it, but a dryness in his throat had brought to mind a more pressing concern. Water. He'd found four half-litre bottles in the fuselage, but it was hardly four day's worth, not in this heat, and not for the three of them.

"Who's Neal?"

Simon's voice startled Peter, and he turned back.

"What?"

"Neal. I heard you call out that name."

"When?"

"Don't play stupid, who the hell is Neal? What did you call his name for? He isn't here."

"No… I… I was dazed, forgot where I was for a moment…"

Simon stared at him for a second, then he looked away, nodding, as if he understood. Then he turned to Peter again.

"But who is he, though? Pretty strange, you calling out a man's name in your moment of peril…"

Peter thought fast. "Neal's my brother," he said. Simon nodded again, eyes downcast.

"Older or younger?"

"Younger."

"Charlie was like a little brother to me. I've known him since he was a little boy, I always watched out for him…"

Peter thought about saying it was a damn fine way to take care of a little brother, dragging him into the looting and smuggling business, but he reckoned Simon would eventually arrive at the same conclusion, and there was no need to reinforce his guilt. Besides, if he thought too much about it, he had to admit that allowing Neal to fly a twin-engine aircraft had not exactly been in his best interest, but he didn't want to dwell on that,_ think of something else, Neal's fine, Neal's fine._

* * *

They both sat in silence among the shrapnel and debris, watching the sun leave a burning trail in the sky until it was almost touching the crest of the dune, about to leave the whole valley in shadow. With every second the light was receding into a bluish shade, and it was right in that moment, when the light touched the tip in an oblique angle, just before the sun disappeared behind it, that Peter saw the pockets of shadow. They were spaced evenly across the sand, climbing in zig-zags from a higher point to the left, all the way to the orange crest and possibly the other side. The bright light had not allowed him to see them before, but now they were clear as day. Footprints.

He stood, wobbling a little, but as momentum carried him forwards he steadied.

"Where are you going?" Simon asked. Peter pointed up.

"There are footprints up there. I'm going to check it out."

Simon nodded, and rested back. He seemed to be too tired or confused to care, and he didn't even look up at the dune. Peter grabbed one of the bottles, shoved it in his bag, and started walking.

* * *

**A/N: This is a shorter one because I need what comes next as a single chapter. I'll be quicker to post next, as well as quicken up the pace of the story, so don't get impatient, the first word of chapter 4 is "Neal". Thank you very much for reading, and I'd love it if you left me a message below, with comments, suggestions, reviews, or whatever you like. I'll read them and bear them all in mind. Hearing from you is a large reason why I like writing this so much! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hey again! Thanks so much for reading. I hope you'll enjoy this chapter. Never forget I am building up to something, take deep breaths and have patience, there's lots of excitement to come! I'll be travelling tomorrow but I still hope I'll be able to update within a week. **

* * *

A fierce afternoon sun was scorching the earth and the ground was burning when he woke up. Neal raised his head from the sand and spat out coarse dust from his mouth. He felt it clogging his nose and throat, and he coughed and gagged. Sand stuck to his eyes and he couldn't see, he felt it burning his bare arms and the back of his neck, and his head felt heavy with it. He was lying on his stomach, nothing but bright yellow sand all around him. He blinked several times, and rubbed his eyes, but still he saw the ground dissolving around around him from the heat, everything was a mirage. His skin felt scorched and dry. Had he been lying there for long? He had no way of knowing, but it felt like a long time.

Slowly, he turned on his side, and then sat up. His head still felt unnaturally heavy and now when he raised a hand he brushed off a wad of wet sand that was plastered to the top, tangled in his hair. He wondered at the wetness, then he rubbed it between his fingers and it left them stained dark red. He shivered. Why didn't he feel pain? It was a little numb, and he felt dizzy when he moved, but there was no pain. Only heat. It burned his lungs just to breathe.

"Peter?"

He looked around, but he was alone. Tall dunes surrounded him, and a steady wind blew against his skin and he could hear it hissing persistently in his ears. It never stopped, or waned, and within a minute the sound was so ingrained in his mind he thought he'd gone deaf. He closed his eyes. The gold. The silver and the turquoise. The ceremonial death mask and the woven fabrics of the coffin. He remembered how the spoils of the looted tomb had looked like, all wrapped and stowed for transport in a wooden crate. He'd arranged for an archaeologist to come and do the restoration — and Peter had come in — but what next? The plan was to meet the Chief of the Operations, and follow him to the top of the band's hierarchical pyramid in New York. But how? How had he ended up here? He rested his hands on the sand and then lifted them, as the heat seared his skin. Breathing was increasingly hard, his arms were weak and his legs were cramping, he felt pinpricks on his skin at every small movement. Black spots flashed in front of his eyes. Hot. It's so hot.

He had to take several quick breaths in order to feel capable of standing, and even after he managed it, he didn't think he could walk more than a few steps. There was nothing but sand around him, red crunchy sand and stone, and it waved and quivered and he couldn't make out the lay of the land more than ten feet in front of him. He could see the crest, and he imagined there must be a deep chasm behind it, as the sand got blown over and rolled down the leeward face of a dune. But he headed the other way. Up. He had to go up, and from there he'd be able to see where he was, from there he'd be able to tell what had happened, and maybe he'd remember, maybe he'd know.

He reached the top. He was still alone. Fear began to grow in his mind, and he remembered the selfish thoughts he'd had when he was looking down at the remains of the tomb. I could take it all and run. I could restore it myself and take it far before Peter even notices I'm gone. Those thoughts he remembered clearly, and after all alternatives rushed through his mind, he concluded he must've given in to those temptations. He must've ran. And now he really was alone.

* * *

It took Peter almost an hour to make it to the top, right around the spot where the plane had impacted the dune. The orange crest, a little further to the side, was covered in tiny reddish pebbles that hurt his hands as he climbed on all fours. He'd previously considered himself to be quite fit, but it was unbelievable how much that climb had cost him. At the crest, he collapsed and laid sprawled there until his heart had slowed down to a moderate speed, and the throbbing in his foot became bearable. He felt a sudden urge to drink the water in his bag, but he suppressed it. He knew that he would need it more later.

He sat up and with some hesitation, looked down at the other side of the dune, which the sun still touched although only in a side glance. His heart made a leap in his chest when he spotted the long, dark shadow of a figure sitting halfway down. A column of billowing grey smoke was rising from the figure, and Peter felt his worry and anxiousness getting rapidly overtaken by anger. He stood, swallowed back the pain in his foot, and ran down.

"Neal!" he called, when he was but a few feet away. He saw Neal stand like a spring and the cigar in his hand dropped to the sand when he turned. His face paled.

"Peter…"

"What the hell Neal! You've got three seconds to explain yourself and it better be good."

"I… Peter… I-I thought I was alone, how…? How did you find me?" He took a step forwards but Peter stepped back.

"Did you bother checking the plane for me? Where were you going, Neal? Back for the crates? Back to look for the treasure? You had maybe hours left to live going in that direction and that's how you were going to spend them?"

"What? No, Peter, look, I didn't know… I thought…"

"You were sitting here, while I was back at the crash site thinking you were squashed under the plane."

Neal clenched his jaw and breathed in deep, but he was quiet. Peter saw his eyes darting away, like he did when he was hiding an emotion, and he wondered if it was guilt, or something else. Neal's eyes came to rest at the now extinguished cigar, and a sad smile formed on his lips.

"The cigar is Simon's. Charlie gave it to me when I saw him packing the case, said Simon wouldn't notice. I thought I'd smoke it now while I can still enjoy it."

Peter wrinkled his eyes, and shook his head.

"Are you joking? Do you think this is a joke? What is the matter with you? Charlie is dead. He bled to death while you were here smoking."

"Charlie… Charlie was with you? I…. I thought… Just wait a second..."

"Neal, you were sitting right in front of me. You had to walk right past me to—"

"What are you even talking about, I… I never even saw you, I..."

"How could you not have seen me, I was still strapped to my seat, and Charlie, Charlie was sprawled out in the sand!"

"Wait, just… Stop. Just stop." Neal breathed in a gasping breath, raised both his hands to his face, and he pulled back his hair, though it remained standing on end - Peter couldn't remember ever seeing it looking so messy. It seemed darker, and… wet. Peter felt a chill running through his back. Something was wrong.

"How… How did Charlie die?" Neal asked, his voice low and dry.

"The crash, Neal. He was hit by shrapnel."

"He was a nice kid."

"Yes. He was."

"I was flying the plane, wasn't I?"

"You were. Neal, what did you think…? What's the last thing you remember?"

"Charlie was taking us to meet Simon… Do you have any water?"

"I have some… Neal, I think you should sit down."

"The sand is hot."

"I know. But I don't want you to spill." Neal sat, his legs spread out in front. Peter took his place beside him and handed him the water bottle. "Take it easy with it, okay? We need to ration it."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Neal, have you taken a look around you? Have you seen where we are?"

* * *

Neal heard Peter's words and he felt as if the weight of the world had fallen on his shoulders, and only then did the numbness in his head began to clear, and the pain began. He saw again the crest of the dune from the cockpit, and felt the tug of his belt as they hit the stone below the sand, he touched the tender spot in his shoulder where the belt - an ancient thing - had snapped. He ran his hands over the sand-covered cuts and scratches in his arms, and he remembered his last few seconds of consciousness, in which he'd been flung headfirst towards the windshield.

He'd crashed the plane in the middle of the desert.

He'd crashed the plane in the middle of the desert, with Peter, Simon and Charlie inside it._ And Charlie was dead._

"Neal?"

Peter's voice reached him through the haze and he turned around. He noticed a lag in his vision, his eyes moved faster than the images perceived by his brain.

"Neal, are you all right?"

"Just fine. Thirsty. Do you have water?"

Peter frowned.

"You're holding the bottle in your hand."

"Oh. Right, yes." He lifted the bottle to his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Peter staring intently at his hands that struggled to remain steady enough to avoid a spill. He only barely succeeded, before Peter took the bottle back.

"I'll give you more on the way down to the fuselage."

"I went right through the window in the cockpit. I remember that."

"Look, Neal, we should to get down to the fuselage. There're some things from the plane we can use to make a shelter, and it will be dark soon..."

"How much time has passed? How many hours? The plane lost fuel. They shot at us from the runway and blew the tank for Engine 1. You said the runway would be clear and it wasn't."

Peter sighed.

"Look, I don't know what happened, Diana told me it was all set up, that we would have no interference..."

"No, stop. I don't want to hear it anymore."

"You just brought it up, I was only-"

"Stop. Please."

Neal turned his head away, ignoring the confused stare Peter was giving him, and he pressed his fingers to his forehead but pain was coming in unbearable waves. He gritted his teeth. Reality sunk in with the pain, and he let himself wallow in the misery of it for a while. Minutes passed and they heard no sound other than the hissing of the wind. The line of the sun on the dune crept up, until they were sitting in the shadows. It was suddenly cold. Neal shivered, but the shiver felt good. Then he lifted his head, slowly got back on his feet, and climbed to the crest of the orange dune once more.

"Dune of Beyond," he said.

"What?" Peter followed him up. He was limping, Neal noticed, and it took him a while to get to the top.

"Dune of Beyond. I've seen it before. It's one of the tallest coastal dunes in the world, yellow base, orange cap... Rises right up from the sea." Neal's voice began to gather speed, almost as if of its own accord. "That means the ocean is close, don't know the distance but it's close, maybe before the sun went down we would've seen the ocean from here, I don't know if you were looking at the beaches but I was, and there were plenty of camping tents, and this entire desert is criss-crossed with truck tracks. We need to walk west, and we'll get to the sea. from there, we walk north, and we'll find someone eventually." He took a big breath. "Come on." He began to walk down, but Peter remained standing still.

"Neal, Simon's at the crash site. All the water is there too. Are…? Are you sure you're all right?"

Neal waved him off.

"Who's Simon?"

"What do you mean, who's- He's your boss. The one who still thinks you're an Australian bush pilot, remember him? The one whose cigar you were smoking?"

Briefly, and with much guilt, Neal thought he would've preferred Simon to die instead of Charlie.

"How much water do we have?"

Peter shook his head slowly.

"Not enough."

"And I imagine you would not be inclined to leave Simon behind."

"It disappoints me that you even consider that an option."

"I also imagined you might say that..."

"Well, you have a vivid imagination, don't you?"

"Peter... How do you know he won't get rid of us and take the water the first chance he gets?"

"Because if he does that, he'd be alone."

"You sound as if you know him."

"I just saw him grieve over Charlie. He's no different than you were eight years ago. A criminal, but not a bad person."

"No different than me?" Neal scoffed. "Well, I don't remember ever putting a gun to someone's head and telling them I'd blow them to hell."

"This is not under discussion, Neal. We're not leaving him behind."

"Even if it means we all die? Think of Elizabeth, Peter. It's either the two of us, or none of us."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"It's obvious there won't be enough water for the three of us."

"And if there's only enough for one? Who's going to save himself then? Imagine I tell you that I'm the one who saves himself because I have a wife, because I've never committed a crime, and because I wasn't the one to make a reckless move that resulted in us crash-landing here? What then, Neal? Does that sound fair to you?"

Neal looked down.

"I did what I could, I didn't anticipate being shot at," he said, with a bitter scowl.

He heard Peter sighing.

"I'm sorry," he said. "What I'm trying to say is, we can't take it upon ourselves to decide who saves himself and who doesn't."

Neal turned. "We all die then. That's your perfect solution?"

"No, Neal, we're not-"

"Look where we are! The runway was supposed to be clear, you were supposed to make sure of that! The moment they shot the tank there was nothing I could do to avoid this. Now you want to blow our only hope at getting out saving a man who was probably planning on killing me the moment we landed in-"

"Neal, stop. Stop this," said Peter. He grabbed Neal's shoulder. "We're not going to die. None of us, you hear me? Diana and Jones will find us. They have our flight plan, they have a tracker on the plane, and they have your anklet. Remember that? They know exactly where we are and they'll come. There's no need to draw straws here."

Neal breathed in deep and looked down. Turning back, he lifted the leg of his pant and saw the light blinking in his anklet. He let out his breath in short bursts.

"I'd forgotten about... Forgot I had it on." He stood again, and wiped the sand stuck to the dry corners of his eyes. He looked around for a moment. Stared at the orange-crowned Dune of Beyond. And he swallowed. "I'm sorry, I... Just feel strange."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Do you think I could…? Could I have a little more water? Just a sip."

Peter took the water bottle out of his bag again, and handed it back to Neal. "Just a sip."

Neal took it, and he held the water in his mouth for as long as he could, savouring the relief it brought to his dry lips and throat. But when he swallowed, it didn't even feel close to enough to quench his thirst.

"We'll have more later," Peter told him. As the bottle was taken from his hand, Neal's fingers squeezed the plastic and he held on for a silent second, before he let go.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading! And thank you all, wonderful reviewers, I hope you will grace me with your comments in this chapter as well. I'll be waiting for those lovely emails as I board my plane (which will be briefly flying over this desert). I live for your reviews, and I'll do my best not to keep you waiting more than 5 days til the next update, which will pick up the pace a little. Do let me know what you think of this story so far! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey again! Sorry I've been absent but I'm currently travelling (seeing the lovely NYC for the first time). I hope you'll like this chapter and if you do so, let me know! To all of you reading and following, I'd like to thank you, each and every one of you are in my mind as I write. Just to warn you, there will be some swearing in this chapter, and the scenes from here on get shorter. Enjoy!**

* * *

Peter watched with weary eyes as Neal walked in front of him on their way down to the fuselage. He'd attributed to his own exhaustion the fact that it had taken him more than a moment to know something was wrong, but now he saw it clearly. He noticed the lack of balance and coordination in his movements, the hesitation sometimes present in his voice, and the patches of red visible in the skin of his forearms and the back of his neck. The sun was down now, and the air was cool and comfortable, but Peter could see that the heat had taken its toll, and he could not allow himself to hope for a night rescue. He needed to think ahead.

"Stop, let me go in front. I don't want to spook Simon," he said, and passed Neal as they reached the bottom of the dune. Peter saw Simon still lying against the fuselage, he didn't appear to have moved an inch since Peter had left. He had his eyes closed, and didn't notice him approaching until he was mere feet away from the plane.

"It's starting to get chilly out here," he said. Simon shivered, and pushed himself against the metal he leaned against, shocked and confused for a second. Then his eyes adjusted to the reduced light, and he stood right up.

"John! I was starting to think you'd never make it back!" he said. Peter smiled.

"Well, I'm back." Peter turned towards Neal and Simon followed his gaze. His expression turned bitter in an instant.

"Where you'd find the pilot?" he asked, not bothering to direct his question at Neal.

"The other side of the dune. He was ejected out the windshield."

Simon scoffed. "Well, you can tell that incompetent idiot to stay the hell away from my plane."

"Simon, he-"

"-is the reason we're in this goddamn mess. Remember what he said? _I'll pump the fuel from one engine to another, we don't need to head East!_"

"You didn't want me to head East," Neal butted in.

"Was I talking to you? I don't think so."

"You know what, if you-"

"Stop." Peter got between them, and stepped on Neal's foot to remind him to keep up his fake accent."This will get us nowhere. We should be making a fire, make ourselves visible."

"A fire? And what on earth are we going to burn?" said Simon.

"There's got to be flammable parts of the plane. Some crating, maybe…"

"We dropped the crating," said Neal. He sat down on the sand and his voice sounded hoarse.

"Well, let's check. There might be something left."

* * *

Simon led the way back into the plane through the tear in the metal on its side, and Peter followed. Taking one step in he stopped and turned back for a moment, to see if Neal was behind him. He saw him still sitting in the sand a few feet away, his knees bent and his head resting against them. Peter thought of calling out to him, ask him to join them, but he could tell he was tired, and it would probably be best to leave him be. He ducked his head, and stepped into the darkness inside the wreck.

* * *

Neal saw Peter disappear through the ripping hole in the fuselage and he let his head hung loose between his legs - he made no attempt to move. The pain was starting to irradiate from the back of his neck to the top of his head, and when he touched his hair fresh blood stuck to his fingers. He took in a deep breath, and he tried to fight it, but it only grew. The pain. The tingling in his throat, the weakness in his arms and the hollow in his chest, it was becoming unbearable. He needed to drink, he needed water. Where is the water? No. Peter had said they needed to ration it, they needed to make it last and he'd already had a drink so he had to wait... But he couldn't. He couldn't.

He stood up and fell on his knees, then he managed to stand again and hobble forwards. The moon was up and it wasn't dark enough to keep him from spotting the bag lying near the crook of the wing and the body of the plane. There were three bottles. He took one, crawled away, and opened it. He took a small, hesitant sip, but his hands were shaking so badly he dropped precious drops into the sand. He kept the water in his mouth for as long as he could, then he swallowed, and almost immediately began to cough. His throat burned. Water spurted out of is mouth.

_Can't spill... can't spill..._ But he couldn't think, his head was throbbing, and he could only manage quick shallow breaths that gave him no satisfaction of his need for air. The bottle fell from his hand and water flowed freely into the sand.

"No... No!" He realised what he'd done and he tried to fix it, he straightened the almost empty bottle and shoved his face into the sand, sucking the fast-fading wetness of it - and then coughing up the coarse sand he swallowed in the process. His heart was beating so quick he heard drumming against his ears and it made him ache. He tried scooping up the sand, pressing it tightly between his hands so as to strain the water out, but it didn't work. It was all long gone, sucked in by the dust. He imagined you could pour an olympic swimming pool of water into that desert and within seconds it would be all gone.

He felt like crying. Peter was going to come out any moment, now, and… _What have I done? What have I done?_ He had not been able to help it. He needed to drink. He still needed to drink, but he felt his head so heavy, every thought was slow, his movements were delayed. He remembered the two other bottles and he crawled back to the bag. He grabbed a second one, and he managed to stand. He walked away from the plane, down, towards the deepest end of the valley where the sand was solid and his feet did not sink. He reached a spot hidden from view, and he raised the bottle to his mouth but his cramping fingers dropped it again. He'd thought it was closed, but for some reason it began to drip. He fell to his knees and the jolt he felt was unexpected, like landing on concrete. The dark-blue landscape around him became pitch black, and he collapsed the rest of the way. Under his hands, the sand became soaked. He hoped then that no one would ever find him.

* * *

"There's some wood here in the hold, they'll make a good fire," said Simon, pulling out two thick wooden planks, like those used for scaffolding. Peter stood beside him, staring at the narrow hole beneath the seats that Simon had opened up.

"What's that doing there?"

"We use them to put them under the wheels of cars, keeps them from moving around."

"You've flown cars in this plane?"

"Oh, we've flown much more than cars… In fact, Charlie once-" Simon stopped, and gulped. He turned his eyes away and carried the wood to the opening. "Yeah, it'll make a good fire."

Peter followed Simon out without another word, carrying the other end of the wooden planks. He jumped down from the plane into the soft sand, and he was surprised by the darkness of the night. He could've sworn it wasn't as dark when he entered the plane - now he could barely tell where the dunes ended and where the sky started.

Simon went back into the fuselage, and brought out a pile of magazines, maps and assorted papers, which he crumpled and laid in the crook between the body of the plane and one of the broken wings.

"We should light it here," he said, "so we're covered from the wind. Do you have a lighter?"

"No. But I think N-Benny had one."

"Yeah, where is that idiot, Benny? He didn't come in and help."

Peter looked around, suddenly alarmed, and he had to turn his back to Simon to keep him from noticing. He scanned the sand that surrounded them, all blue-black and inscrutable, and he struggled to keep his breath even. _Dammit, Neal, why do you keep doing this to me?_

"He was sitting right here when we went in…" Peter took a few steps back and stumbled with the bag that held the water. He peered inside. There was just as single bottle. Panic ran through his veins and he forgot the cold and the pain in his foot.

"What's that you got there?" Simon asked.

"Oh, it's just-my bag, I left it here…"

"Is that where you left the water? We need to be careful about it, here, I'll put it away…"

"No it's all right, I-" But Simon was already pulling the bag from his hands. He felt the difference in weight immediately.

"What's this?" he said. His voice rose. "Where're the other bottles? There's-" he looked inside, "there's just one here!"

"I haven't touched them, I three of them there when I came back, I've got the fourth one."

"Well, then, who-" He stopped. A furious hiss came out from his mouth. "I'm going to kill him."

"No, wait-"

"I'm going to kill him! That son of a bitch! He's the reason we're here, _he's the reason Charlie's dead._ Oh, I swear to God, when I… He can't have gone far. You go round the plane to the left, check for footprints, I'll go to the right."

"Simon, please-"

"He's got all the water, John! And he's getting away! Get a move on!"

Simon took off at a run, and Peter immediately did the same in the opposite direction, leaning forwards to try and distinguish shapes in the sand. He needed to find Neal first.

"Neal!" he called in hissing whispers. "Neal, where the hell are you!"

There was no answer. Peter quickened his pace, stepping hard on his injured foot despite the pain. His shoes were heavy with sand and they flopped awkwardly, but he kept going, almost in a frenzy, and cursing softly with every step.

"Ah-ha!" Simon called from the other side of the plane, and Peter thought he'd have a heart attack. "There he is, the bastard."

"You found him?" he called. He had to be loud in order to keep his voice level. Simon's voice, on the other hand, was calm. It almost sounded amused.

"Looks like he hopped the twig, though."

"What?" Peter sprinted back the other way, alternating holding his breath to taking big gulps of air. He felt a paralysing anxiety, a dread that seemed to make his blood boil. He saw Simon's silhouette standing ahead, but not Neal. "Where is he? What do you mean?"

"And he didn't even drink it! The sand is wet…"

"Peter…" The voice sounded just as Peter reached Simon's side, and when he looked down he saw Neal lying on his back, an empty water bottle clutched in his hand. Sand was plastered to his hand and half of his face.

"Oh, so you are alive!" Simon knelt down, and he grabbed Neal's collar, he raised him from the ground and started to shake him. "Where is rest of the water, huh? You used it all up for washing, didn't you? How's it feel like to be all nice and clean?"

Peter saw Neal's eyes open weakly, and they focused on him for just a second before Simon shoved him hard against the ground, grunting with rage.

"Simon, stop," said Peter, reaching for his shoulder, but Simon pushed him back and shook Neal again.

"You GODDAMNED son of a bitch! You bastard! Charlie is dead and you've just condemned us all!"

"Simon!"

"No! Why are you defending him! Your wife will be a widow because of him! You will die of thirst here because of him!"

Peter gulped and reached for Simon, trying to pull him off Neal, who was feebly struggling to cover his face from a sudden onslaught of poorly aimed punches. Simon grabbed Neal's collar again, and this time the button broke and he slumped down on the sand on his back.

"Peter!" he gasped, his eyes wide, as the first button of his shirt disintegrated in Simon's hands, and microchip with a tiny camera lenses dropped into the sand. Simon let go of Neal. His face paled, he stared at the chip and his lower lip began to tremble.

"You...," he turned to Peter. "What is this? What the hell is this?"

Peter clenched his fists tight and considered denying everything, considered letting Neal take the fall. For some reason that's what he imagined Neal would've done, even if just to get them out of there.

"Look, I can explain this..."

"_Explain!_ You're going to explain things to _me_ now? After you've played me for a fool!"

Neal spat sand and crawled away from Simon, panting heavily, but Simon threw himself over him and pressed his knees against Neal's back. He reached for his vest pocket, and pulled out the gun that he'd threatened Neal a few hours before. He lifted his eyes, they were glassy with tears, but there was an insane quality about them that had not been there before. When he spoke he pushed Neal's head down, and kept pressing the gun against his skull, but he was looking straight at Peter.

"You're a fed. Your name's not John." He laughed a bitter laugh. "Bet you're not even an archaeologist, and your useless partner sure isn't a pilot."

"Simon, listen, this isn't what it looks like-"

"You set this up, _you set me up!_" Simon's voice rose, ragged, a mix of rage and grief. "This was just a game for you, just... just a sting. You didn't care what happened to us. That's how you work, you call in the name of the law and you don't give a fuck about the rest of us, about our lives, about what drove us to this... You think I wanted this? You think I wanted this to be my life? You think I wanted Charlie...- You bastards. I should kill you both right now."

"No, Simon. You... you don't have to do that."

Simon scoffed. "We're all dying here anyway, so what's the difference?"

"Peter..." Neal's voice pleaded again and Peter wished he would stop, he was only making things worse.

"Your name's Peter," said Simon, and looked down. "And his name... is Neal, isn't it? You two are partners. You always come in partners."

"He's not a fed," said Peter, on an impulse. "He's a pilot. We turned him, paid him double for the job."

"And you're usually so concerned about criminals you turn?"

"I'm FBI, I can't have people killed in my operations."

"That didn't help Charlie."

"I did what I could for Charlie, you know that."

"You didn't do enough."

Peter took a step towards Simon, and tried to reach for his gun, to pull it away. But Simon stepped back, he stumbled and stood again, then he covered his face with the hand that held his gun. When he put it down there were tears in his eyes.

"I want you both gone. Now. Leave the water and go."

"Simon, you know that if-"

"LEAVE! NOW! You put one foot over that dune and I'll kill you, don't you think I won't!"

Peter hesitated a second, looking down at Neal on the ground. Their eyes met. Then the pop of gunfire echoed miles across the desert and the sand between Peter and Neal rose like a ripple.

"I said now!"

"Okay, okay, take it easy..." Peter moved forwards with his hands raised, then he leaned next to Neal and tried to lift him to his feet. "Come on, help me here," he told him, and Neal grabbed on to Peter's arms and got himself up, but he stiffened when they tried taking a step.

"Can't… can't," he said, hissing, but Peter kept pushing, and slowly they started to move. Peter made a sweeping move and lifted his duffel bag from the ground, just as another gunshot echoed, and Neal flinched. The sand next to their feet rippled. Two more shots sounded, before they finally cleared the nearest dune and they were out of sight. It was only a few metres ahead, maybe a minute or two, but it felt like a lifetime.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this! If you did, I'd love it if you'd brighten my inbox with a lovely review or comment or anything in the box below, doesn't matter if you're logged in or are a guest, I read all your comments and cherish each one. There's a lot more coming and I will try and update within the week. If I'm late, be sure to remind me! Happy Friday, people!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hey again! Miss me? I certainly missed you! I've got another chapter for you folks. I hope you'll like it. Thank you for reading! **

* * *

Peter slumped down in the sand, letting Neal drop beside him. The moon had made a reappearance, and he was now staring at a large expanse of waving blue dunes, all belittled by the Dune of Beyond, which rose behind them. There was no trace of vegetation, no birds, no sign of life. He brought both his hands to his forehead, and let out a long slow breath. Then he turned to Neal.

They were on a flat portion of a large dune, a step of sorts, and Neal was lying down on his back, eyes only half open. Peter opened his duffel bag and brought out a large plastic sheet they'd been planning on using to wrap up the more delicate archaeological parts. He laid it out on the sand, weighing it at the corners, and then he stood over Neal.

"Just roll over here," he said, pushing him towards the plastic. Neal obliged without a word. Once he was there, Peter searched Neal's pockets and found the lighter he'd used to smoke Simon's cigar. He had to cover it with both his hands to keep the icy wind from blowing out the flame, but it was all the light he needed. "Neal," he said, with a light shake on his shoulder. "I'm going to check your head, okay? Can you sit?"

Neal blinked and nodded, but Peter could tell it took an effort to make the move. Peter held him in that position, and brought the light to the back of Neal's head. There was sand stuck to it. He tried to clear it, but it was sticky. It stained his fingers with blood.

"Oh my God…" he whispered, and wished he had enough water with him to clean and see the source of bleeding, but he knew he couldn't waste what little remained in the bottle he'd taken. He grabbed Neal's arm and felt his skin cold and clammy.

"Bet I'm looking pretty pathetic here... aren't I?" Neal muttered. Peter shook his head.

"Why didn't you say anything? I didn't know it was this bad…"

Neal looked away. "Didn't hurt at first… That… that sorry excuse of a human being had me pinned down and I couldn't do a thing to stop it, I couldn't take his gun, couldn't throw him off..."

"Neal..."

Neal turned his eyes to Peter. "If we had just left Simon at the crash when I said... then we'd be by the sea already... but you had to do the righteous thing, didn't you? Now how did that work out for you Peter?"

Peter had to swallow hard and squeeze his fists to keep himself from joining in with his own recriminations.

"Neal, you've got a concussion. Please stop talking."

"I thought sleeping was the big no-no."

"Don't do that either."

"Come on Peter. What's the point? Personally I'd rather bleed into my brain than die of thirst."

"Stop it. Just... Don't go there. It's hardly been a day, Diana must've been travelling. Tomorrow they will be looking for us, I can promise you that. They will find us."

* * *

Neal wrinkled his dark canvas jacket and laid it under his cheek, using it as a pillow. He saw Peter beside him removing his own jacket, but he began to tear it in strips, with the help of a pocket knife. It took him several minutes to have the job done, and then he leaned towards Neal. He didn't bother asking him to move or telling him what he was going to do. Neal just felt a tug and then he found the canvas wrapped tight around his forehead, looping to the back of his head, and leaving tufts of hair sticking out from the top and the front. Neal kept quiet, he let him work. He remained lying down over the plastic sheet, lifting the edges to cover himself from the wind, while Peter checked through the contents of his duffel bag. He began to feel guilty then. Guilty because he knew this wasn't Peter's fault, not really, but still a part of him refused to let go of the accusations he'd thrown against him. He felt guilty, and ashamed, because he had not been able to control himself, and even now he retained very little control, and that was something alien to him. He didn't know how to handle it.

"We should try and move for the ocean while it's dark," he muttered. He raised himself on his elbows and tried to look stable. Peter stopped what he was doing to look up. "Come morning, the heat here will dry us out fast. If… If our wait for rescue will be a long one, then we won't last long the ocean, we can cool down."

Peter sighed, and shook his head.

"I hurt my foot in the crash. It's enough of an effort for me to walk by myself - I can't carry you."

"You won't have to," said Neal. "I'll walk. I can walk. Just give me a moment to rest, and I'll do it."

"I don't believe you."

"Well, suit yourself then."

Neal placed both his hands firmly in the ground, then he turned to put his weight on his knees, and he slowly but steadily rose up. He put on his jacket again, buttoning it up to his neck to keep the wind out, and he began to hobble away from Peter.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked. He watched with alarm as Neal staggered and then regained his balance.

"I'm going to the ocean. I don't want a dusty grave."

"Neal, it's not-how do you even know where the ocean is?"

Neal pointed up to the sky full of stars. Peter had not looked up before, and only now he saw how clear the night had become. He could not remember ever seeing so many starts.

"That's the Cross," said Neal, pointing to a low and irregular set of stars to their left. "It points south. Right now we're heading west. The sea lies in the west."

Peter nodded, and he stood as well. He'd only been lying down a short time, but it was enough to make his foot and lower leg stiffen, and now that he pressed his weight on it again it hurt much more. He limped behind Neal, the bag again on his shoulder and the plastic sheet trailing out of it.

"How about you wait for me, Marco Polo?"

* * *

Dawn found them still walking. They had long stopped harbouring thoughts of rescue or death, they hardly even thought at all, except to will themselves to keep putting one foot in front of the other. They were still surrounded by dunes but now they walked through hard grit and stone, and with the stars no longer visible they could only hope that they were still headed West. The air was ice cold, but the sun was rising yellow over the line of the horizon, and it was no longer dark. Neal had been concentrated on moving forwards, on keeping his balance and swallowing back the nausea, and he almost missed it. But then a rock of quartz reflected the yellow sunrays into his eyes and he stopped. He stared up at the beautiful sunrise, at the clouds and dunes still blue but softly changing. Then he saw the tyre marks in the ground, just as Peter kept on walking straight into his back, and they both got knocked down.

Neal was the first to untangle himself and crawl out, running his hands over the pebbles that had settled over the track. It wasn't recent, but he could still make out the grooves of the tyre in the ground, so it wasn't old either.

"Should we follow it?" He said. He had not spoken in a while and it surprised him how hoarse his voice sounded. Already his lips were cracked and his skin was so badly sunburnt it had swollen and become purplish. Every wrinkle in his clothes burned when it brushed against it.

"What?" Peter asked. He had sat up but his legs remained outstretched.

"The tyre tracks. Look," Neal pointed down.

"You said you saw several tracks from the plane. That they crisscrossed the desert, never lead anywhere."

"But this one might."

"Neal..."

"You've got a better idea? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."

"It's just that it might just lead us in circles! If we don't reach the ocean before it starts to get hot, then-"

"Okay, okay. We'll follow it, as long as it heads west. All right?"

"There are no stars anymore, how do you know where west is?"

Neal turned his back to the rising sun, and he pointed to the still darkened horizon in front of him.

"That's west."

* * *

Neal began to feel the heat in the back of his neck after almost an hour of walking over the tyre tracks. The wind was still cool and it didn't blow as hard as the day before, but it was only morning, probably not even seven yet. Slowly the ground around them would heat up, until the air above it trembled and silver lakes lured them in the distance. The ground was now both rock and sand, not as flat as before, and every now and then Neal had to wait for Peter to catch up in his odd limp, dragging his injured foot over the ground. It had swollen to almost twice its size, and Neal was worried Peter would not be able to walk all the way to the sea. What he'd do then? He couldn't carry him. He had managed to ignore the pain in his head and the growing dizziness, but he was only a misstep away from needing to be carried himself.

"Do you see that?" said Peter in a rough, husky voice. He had to swallow before speaking again, pointing at a far off dark spot. Neal squinted his eyes, but saw nothing.

"No. There's nothing."

"Yes there is." Peter dropped his bag on the ground and began to ruffle through it, picking out a pair of pocket binoculars. His smile was so wide his lips cracked some more. "Green. There's a green patch over there. Bushes, I think there's a cactus… It's got to be an oasis!"

"An oasis?" Neal was skeptical. "That small? And so close to the sea? We were four hundred metres above the sea level at landing, there's got to be at least half a mile of sand under us before the next aquifer."

Peter stared at him, frowning. "No idea what you've just said, but see for yourself." He gave Neal the binoculars, while pointing at the dark patch. Neal took a moment to locate the spot, but when he did he nodded.

"Yeah, that's some vegetation for sure. Though I don't see water."

"Let's find out then."

They didn't run, but they hobbled faster. They were both smiling when they reached the spot of vegetation, but no pool of blue water awaited them. A large prickly-pear cactus grew surrounded by smaller dry shrubs, grasses, and a thorny acacia tree in bloom. There was no water but the ground under the cactus was moist, as if it had just been irrigated, and half covered by the greenery was a grey stone plaque. In front of the plaque, someone had left a red plastic container, like those used to store fuel, half-filled with water still retaining a faint taste of gasoline. Peter was quick to refill his bottle, and after drinking some he passed it on to Neal.

"Please take it easy with this one. Hold it with both hands or something."

"How very like you to mock me in my worst moments." Neal muttered before he drunk.

"Ah, come on," said Peter. "That wasn't your worst moment."

"I was half passed out and lying over the water I was trying to drink, if that isn't downright pathetic I don't know what is."

Neal drunk the water, carefully. He didn't mind the taste at all, and he didn't spill, but he had to let the bottle rest in the sand beside him right after drinking, afraid he couldn't hold the shaking in his hands for much longer. When he turned to look at Peter he found him serious again, his forehead wrinkled and his eyes set on the trembling line of the horizon.

"This gives us a couple of days," he said. "Three, if we stretch it. But I don't know how I'll be able to walk over one more dune, let alone 20 miles to the north."

"Didn't you say Diana was tracking us? That she'd follow my anklet signal and come for us?" said Neal. Peter shook his head.

"Something must've gone wrong. Maybe the local authorities withrew their support, I don't know…"

"If they see the plane, all they'll find is Simon."

"They have your anklet, they'll know we're not there. But I do think we should head for the sea, like you said. Now that we have some more water… But we should walk at night. Not in this sun."

* * *

They both rested their backs and huddled under the refreshing shade of the acacia. Neal closed his eyes and began to fall asleep, but Peter kicked his foot and cast him a glance.

"No sleeping for you," he said. But Peter's eyes were also closing, and after a few minutes he was too far gone to pay attention or say anything. Neal slept. He heard in his ears the loud hissing of the plane just before the crash, the alarms sounding and the roar and the screams. He felt the seatbelt tearing, his shoulder burning, his head hitting the glass—

"Neal!"

He opened his eyes, gasping. Peter was holding him by the shirt, as if about to shake him, and behind him Neal saw the sky turning pink.

"I said no sleeping," said Peter, and he released his shirt. Neal smiled a nervous smile, and slowly sat up. The throbbing in his head was diminished, but it was still there, and the lag in his vision had gotten worse.

"Is it so late already?" he muttered. He felt his stomach grumbling and he remembered he had not eaten in more than a day. Peter had gathered a mound of dry twigs, and he flicked Neal's lighter on. Neal reached for his pocket, where he'd last put the silver zippo Charlie had given him. "How did you—?"

"I took it after I dragged you away from Simon. You were pretty out of it, then, scared me for a moment there…"

"Aww, Peter, I'm touched."

Peter scoffed, but he was smiling. The scorching heat of the day had passed, and now the sand beyond the shade was starting to cool. The sky was a red-pink hue he'd never seen in New York.

"I suppose you can appreciate the beauty of a place like this…" Peter murmured. It was Neal's turn to scoff.

"It's lifeless. Empty. That's not the sort of beauty I'm inclined towards."

"You're inclined to the sort of beauty that gets you in trouble, that is…"

"You're at it again? It wasn't even me who suggested this case, it was—"

"I'm not talking about this case. I'm talking about you in general. I think that if you'd learned to appreciate a barren, lifeless landscape that can give you dunes so tall and perfect, that is so empty you can see for miles, that probably no one has looked upon the way you have, that can give you a sky like that… I think that if you had learned to see beauty in simple things earlier on, your life would've been different."

Neal looked away. He shivered, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Don't you think that's simplifying it a little too much?" he said in a soft voice. Peter shrugged.

"Beauty is in the simplest things, in the wonders of nature… It's free for all and only takes a minute."

"That's easy for you to say, Peter, but sunsets didn't pay for food when I was growing up, and they sure don't pay for food now. Art is different. Art is human expression."

"Human expression inspired in nature, nature you are staring at right now."

"Never saw any artist that found the desert inspiring."

"I'm not just talking about the desert, why do you keep hanging on specifics? And I'll have you know, Richard Dadd painted the desert, and no one would say his paintings aren't beautiful."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Peter. I'm impressed."

"You underestimate me. And you know what? There is enjoyment and fulfillment of that sort in all kinds of things."

"Is that right?"

"Yes. You know what does it for me?"

"What does it for you, Peter? Chasing after me?"

"Nope. When I'm driving… You know, when I'm taking a turn at some speed, I love the way the wheel slides under my fingers to realign itself."

Neal turned, gaping.

"You're serious?"

Peter nodded.

"You find fulfillment in your life by the sensation of making a fast turn?"

"No, see, it's not that the turn is fast, it's the wheel…—"

"Now, who's hanging on specifics?"

"Try to understand the bigger picture, Neal. There are small things in life that are worth enjoying. If you live waiting for the next big thing, you'll miss all that's in the middle."

"Hmm…" Neal got to his knees, and proceeded to stand. The fire was burning now. "I'll bear that in mind."

"Do so. And while you're at it, check the cactus for fruit and tender parts. We can cook it in the fire."

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this. I ended on a high note but be prepared to take a dive into darkness before it's over (who doesn't enjoy a little drama). I will update soon, now that I am back home and settled. I hope you're all doing well, and any comment or review, you can leave below! It's been too long since I'd last heart from you guys. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N : Hey again! Here's another one for you. Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! **

* * *

It was dark when they left the cactus. They carried with them scorched pieces of cactus pads and some not yet ripe fruit, and they stuffed Peter's bag with twigs to burn should they need to make a fire again. They both had their doubts about leaving, after all the cactus was a good shelter and it was source of food, but the water was still limited, and nightime was the best time to try and make for the sea.

Neal carried the red container - as hard as it was for him to keep his balance, Peter was slow enough with his injured foot and the bag. Their pace was slow. They watched the moon slowly make its way up in the sky, and keeping the Southern Cross to their left they made their way over the crunchy grit, into the dunes again. The further they got, the steeper the dunes became, and soon there were no more truck marks or signs of human passing. When the moon was directly above their heads, Neal began to lag behind. He had to stop every few paces and rest the water container in the ground — he could not carry it for more than a few minutes without resting. Peter noticed, and tried to adjust his pace, but still every now and then he was forced to stop and double back. He wanted to ask him if he was alright, if maybe it would be best if they stopped and had a rest, but he knew it would be pointless. Neal would just keep on walking.

Peter was watching the line of the horizon turn yellow for a second time, as the sun prepared to rise behind him, when he heard a dull smack and a shuffling in the sand. He turned, and saw Neal on all fours, the water container upturned beside him, though — thank goodness — it was sealed. He limped back as fast as he could, and leaned down. He could hear the rasping breath despite the wind.

"Neal? What's wrong."

"Just… lost my footing."

Peter sighed. "Sure you did." He leaned down, and helped him up again. Neal was unsteady, but he managed to keep himself upright. Peter noticed with alarm that now the whole back of his collar and parts of the back of his shirt were splotched with blood, but he kept quiet. He could not afford to panic now. "Come on, the sun is rising. There's a depression here where we can set up the tarp above us during the day. You can have a little more water when we get there."

"Okay," said Neal, nodding, and followed Peter blindly.

They had taken off their shoes at the cactus, they walked now with the laces tied together and hanging from their necks, and they noticed the moment the sand underneath became thin, just a layer over solid rock. They began to slide down, just a little at first, and then ending up running down with long strides just to keep themselves upright - it was that steep. Neal was the first to stumble and roll down the rest of the way, but it did not take long for Peter to follow. When they finally stopped, they were in a deep depression surrounded by walls of sand. Their breaths echoed in the closed space.

"Are you all right?" Peter asked. He heard a cough. There the rising sun didn't touch them and it was still hard to see.

"I just literally bit the dust," Neal replied. He coughed again, and then leaned against the wall of sand. His hands went to his head and they stayed there. The makeshift bandage Peter had made had before was loose, and it was now slipping over his eyes. Peter wasn't sure what was the extent of the damage, if there was something else the matter or if it was just the head wound, but it made him anxious that there was nothing he could do about it.

Peter reached for the red container, which had slipped and fallen a few feet to their right. When he grabbed the handle he noticed it was wet, and gasped when he felt the sand was soaked underneath it. But he also kept quiet. The container still had water. They could still make it.

"Here, drink," he said, passing Neal the lid of the container filled with water. Neal drunk greedily and then looked up, hoping for more, but Peter pretended not to see the pleading in his face. He drunk his own lid-full, and then closed it tight. He took the tarp out of the bag and began to burry the edges in the wall of sand a few feet above the ground, stretching it to the other side so it would form a sort of roof over them. It was when he adjusted the last corner, that he looked down and to the left and he saw two beams of light coming from the deeper end of the depression, flashing for a second and then turning off.

"Whoa," he said.

"What is it?"

"Lights. I just saw lights, down there. They looked like headlights."

"I don't hear an engine."

"Nor do I… I'm going to have a look, you wait here."

He walked carefully - he didn't want to slip again. The rock formation they were in at the moment was decidedly the oddest thing he'd seen - it was like a sink hole in the middle of a flat extension of sand. He wondered if it would swallow him if he kept going down, and he began to step with hesitation, but then the ground leveled. A thicker layer of sand had gathered at the bottom and it was easier on his feet to step closer and closer. The blue light slowly crept into the crevace they were in, and the source of the flash became visible. Peter stopped in his tracks.

A car lay at the bottom of the sink-hole, upside down, the roof and windows crushed, the wheels facing the sky. It was a large black 4WD truck, a model of the year, and though dust coated its paintwork it looked like it had only just reached that position. Its skid marks in the sand above were still visible. Peter took a step closer, very slowly, and he leaned down to peer inside. He closed his eyes, shivered, and stepped back again.

"What was it?" Neal asked, when Peter got back. The sun was up by then by the tarp blocked the view of the car and he could not see it from there.

"Nothing… I must've gotten confused," said Peter. He crawled under the tarp, and lied down looking up. His lips were cracked, his face still itched and burned, and he had never in his life been so tired, but in that moment he could not think of his own misery. He could only think of the people in the black 4WD.

* * *

Neal turned on his side and closed his eyes. He wondered if Peter would wake him soon, and he kept waiting for the shove that made him bolt awake, but it never came. In fact, when he looked to his side Peter was turned away from him, probably asleep as well. He decided he might as well sleep too, at least while it wasn't so hot. He was exhausted, and it wasn't hard to drift away. He dreamt of a beach with deep blue waters, and then his dream morphed again into the plane, his hands clutching the levers so tight his knuckles turned white, the wind hissing and driving dust into his eyes, so strong he couldn't see, couldn't hear, could hardly even breathe… He opened his eyes, and breathed in dust. He heard plastic flapping, and when he lifted his head he saw the wind carrying down sand from the top of the mounds that surrounded them. When the sand got down to their level, Neal felt it like a blow, and the tarp would've been blown away in a second had he not been holding tight.

"Peter!" he called. The gust blew his words away and he had to turn and shake Peter awake, just as another gust threatened to flatten him. Peter sat, and covered his face. Sand was coming at them from every direction, and they could hardly see a thing. "Sandstorm! We need shelter, help me stretch the tarp!"

Peter grabbed the edge of the plastic, and the wind blew it off his hands and into Neal's again. Peter shook his head. Shelter. The car.

"That will never hold!" He had to shout to hear his own voice. "Follow me!"

Neal grabbed on to Peter's shirt while he covered his face with his other arm. The bandage in his head got ripped right off, and he had to walk leaning forwards in order to be able to move. Peter carried the red water container, and he led them down, down, until the ground leveled. Forwards. Forwards. And then stop. They were suddenly shielded, and Neal turned to look at the source of his shield.

"Peter! This is a car!"

"Don't touch it. Just put your back to it, we'll use it to set up the tarp."

"But we can go in! We can cover ourselves inside!"

"No! Don't open the door, Neal. Don't open the door."

"Why not?"

Neal turned, and opened the door of the pilot's seat, sticking his head inside. A face hanging upside down almost touched his own face when he blinked, and he recoiled and pulled back so quick his head bumped hard against the door and then he fell on his back in the sand. He felt all blood leave his face and he was dizzy, he could not speak or make a sound. The sand storm blew against him hot and terrible, but he did not attempt to move, did not want to go near the car. If Peter had not reached out and pulled him in towards the shelter formed by the door of the boot and the tarp, he would've stayed there indefinitely.

"I told you not to open the door," Peter said, gritting his teeth. Neal said nothing, and he leaned against the open boot until his back rested against the luggage that filled it. The wind kept blowing, harder and harder, it blew whirlwinds of sand into their little shelter, it made the plastic flap and the metal hiss and the sand rubbed against their skins. Neal felt as if he was slowly being eroded away. He remained still, not really sitting and not really standing, but as the day wore on and it became hotter he found it harder to keep his head upright. The feeling of nausea brought on by heat that he'd felt when they landed returned, and he wanted desperately to drink but he could not reach the water. He was drying up, he could feel it, but he didn't want to move, didn't want to look up or even speak. All of that was a waste of energy and he didn't have energy to spare. Slowly he felt himself turning into dust...

* * *

He must've fallen asleep - at least it felt that way. The next thing he knew, the sun was about to set, his head was being lifted from the sand, and the lid of the water container was being pressed to his lips.

"Come on, Neal…" Peter was muttering. Neal opened his mouth but more water flowed in than he could swallow, and he gagged and almost spat out, before he realised he couldn't waste it. "That's it. Just swallow. That's it."

Neal managed to swallow the water, and then he sat abruptly and pulled away from Peter.

"What happened? The wind?"

"It's stopped. Take it easy, okay, don't move so much," Peter answered. "I didn't notice you had passed out until the storm ended, I couldn't see a thing."

"I didn't… I was just…"

"Don't kid yourself, Neal, I've had it with your "I'm fine"s. You're not helping me, you know? If you had told me about your head I could've stopped the bleeding before it was so bad. You must've been in the sun a long time while you were alone. It must be over 40ºC here, that causes heat stroke. You know what that is, Neal?"

"Yeah, I know what that is."

"And were you aware you fit in every symptom?"

"I… I was… I wasn't…"

"Truly, Neal, it keeps surprising me, how you can be a genius in some things and a complete idiot in others."

"Oh, what things am I a genius in?"

"No, don't do that. I'm not up for jokes." Peter turned back. He raised up the red contained, and the water inside sloshed faintly. There was only about half a litre left.

"I thought there was more," said Neal, serious again.

"There was. We drunk it."

"How much does it give us?"

Peter sighed.

"I don't know if we'll make it past two."

* * *

**A/N: I'll be quicker this week to update, probably on Thursday though I might be persuaded to do it earlier... Don't get impatient! I know it's hard... You'll just have to trust me. I need a build up in order to raise the stakes high enough to get the emotion I'm looking for. If it gets too unbearable, though, you can let me know. I hope you liked this chapter and if you did or have any comments or thoughts, let me know below! I live for your reviews. **

**Also on another note, I'm just about finished with this story (in writing, not editing and posting) and as of yet I don't have any other story in the works. So I'm recurring to you incredible WC fans if you want to give me any sort of prompts or suggestions for something to get started on once I finish this. **

**Thank you so much for reading! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: So sorry for the delay! I've been trying to post this since last week and the Doc Manager kept bunching up all the text together and I didn't know how to make it right. Hope this time it comes out properly, and be prepared for the start of the more intense chapters. Thank you for reading!**

**A/N: Second version. Edited the 25th of March. **

* * *

Peter blew softly on a reddened twig until he saw a flame, and then he placed it carefully under a heap of thicker twigs and some paper from his notebook. Fire rose up, protected from the wind by the wrecked car and his own body, and he smiled. He remembered back home he struggled with getting the charcoal to burn when setting up the grill for a barbecue, even using those wax covered things that would keep on burning no matter what, he still always had to bring down El's hair dryer to get it right. How do you like this fire, El? The first thing he was going to do after getting home was to light up the grill and make some good rib-eye for them both.

He heard a soft grunt, and he turned. Neal had come to lie down on his back beside the car, and he had his eyes closed tight and both hands touching his forehead in a gesture of pain. Peter dropped the little twig he held to adjust the wood in the fire, and all thought of steak and barbecues was erased from his mind. He was back down on earth in an instant, just by the sight of Neal, and he no longer felt proud of his fire, or of anything.

He reached for his bag, and pulled out a not-yet ripe prickly pear. He used a piece of broken headlight glass to peel off the spines, and then he held it out for Neal.

"Here," he said. Neal opened his eyes and grabbed the fruit with shaking hands. He took off a bite, and there was no comment on the taste.

"Is this the second night?" Neal asked, in a soft husky voice.

"It's the third, I think… I'm not sure." Peter brought out a scorched piece of a cactus pad for himself, and started eating.

"What do you think happened to Simon?"

"I don't know, Neal…"

Simon must still be by the plane, he had no where else to go and not enough water for four days - or was it three? - so he had to be there still. With Charlie.

He stared at his own hands and remembered they'd once been covered in his blood.

My God, Charlie…

"We should've buried him," he said.

"What?"

"Charlie. We should've buried Charlie."

Neal raised his head from the sand, and he appeared to only just be noticing the fire. He sat up, slowly, and got closer to warm up. He breathed in deep before he spoke.

"If we had buried him he would've become invisible. Now when they find the plane, they'll find him as well. He'll get a proper burial."

"How about... How about the people from the truck?" Peter asked, his eyes glancing back as if of their own accord. "It's a whole family, and it was recent. This hole is so deep it might be… It might be a long time before they find them."

"But they'll find them… eventually."

Peter shook his head, pulling himself a little further away from the car.

"I… We're sitting right beside them. We should bury them. It's disrespectful."

Neal rubbed his forehead with his hands again, and then he nodded.

"All right," he agreed. "Let's do it. Maybe they'll have food and water inside."

Peter stiffened.

"No, we're not going to loot."

"Peter... It's not looting, they're already dead. They have no use for it. And we need this."

Peter swallowed hard. He stood, and then helped Neal stand. He felt a hollow in his stomach and his blood was pumping furiously against the little veins in his head, but he managed to place himself in front of the door. It was Neal who opened it. And the same face that had stared at him when he first reached the car, on his own, it was staring at him now. He had a weird feeling in the back of his throat.

"Help me," Neal said. Peter raised his eyes to look at him. His face was darkened, the light of the fire didn't reach him, but he could see his arms and legs were shaking, that he could barely keep himself upright. But still he grabbed the seat belt and pulled it loose, and he began to drag the first passenger out. Peter grabbed him too and they dragged him into the sand a few feet away. Peter let go. Neal went back to the truck, to keep going, and he stretched his arms to reach inside. Peter stared. His own hands shook. The moment he felt cold skin under his fingers, and he saw another face staring at him, he let go.

This was going to be him, in a couple of days.

This was going to be Neal and him, under the sand for years and years.

Why?

"I can't do this," he said. He stepped back, and then sat next to the fire - the shaking of his hands and the pain in his foot was not longer something he could control. Neal raised his eyes to him, wide with shock.

"Peter…"

"I just can't. I can't."

Peter remained silent and still, and Neal went ahead and began to pry the rest of the doors wide open. He stopped when he'd managed it, and he closed his eyes for a moment and said a quick prayer in his mind. Then he looked down at Peter.

"Am I doing this alone?" He asked. Peter felt like an invisible hand had just gotten hold of his heart and was squeezing it till bursting point. He couldn't speak. He couldn't look up or the faces in the sand would keep staring at him, and he couldn't bear it. It was all so wrong.

* * *

There were four bodies in the car, and after getting them all out Neal felt like he was going to be sick. A new sense of nausea piled on to his previous dizziness, which had moved once more to the foreground, and when he looked down he couldn't help it. He dropped to his knees, his hands on the sand, and he retched bile until he had nothing left to throw up, though still the sight of the bodies made his chest tremble and his stomach heave. When he managed to stand again, and look up, he saw Peter had moved away from the car and was now starting another fire further away. He felt a flare of anger, but he held it back, and forced himself to finish the task he had set out to do. He wasn't even sure, as he piled sand over the bodies, why he was doing what he was doing. But he couldn't leave the job halfway done.

It was a while before Neal left the burial ground behind and moved on to the car. He didn't know how he was still standing, or where he found the strength, but he never stopped. He squeezed inside, panting and wheezing, and he wiggled his way around the boot and the back seats, throwing out whatever he thought might prove useful. When he crawled back out, he had plenty of fire material sprawled out in the sand, a large tarp and camping chair by the boot, and a glorious bottle of red Gatorade clutched in his hands. With it, he hobbled over to Peter's fire, and sat down. He took a big gulp from the bottle, loudly, so he'd catch his friend's attention, and then when their eyes met Neal scoffed. He felt a strange sort of rage, the kind that makes you forget that actions have consequences.

"You're a coward," he said. Peter said nothing. Their eyes didn't meet. "Supposed you believed they were going to get out all on their own for us to lay sand over them."

"No, don't push it," Peter said, suddenly turning. "It takes..." He pointed to the mounds of sand. "It takes a very... very cold, twisted mind not to be disturbed by that."

"You're saying I'm cold and twisted?"

"Neal, you... You dragged those people out... Like they were just... Pieces of furniture."

"There was no other way to do it. And you said it yourself, we had to. Someone had to, and you couldn't."

Peter opened his mouth and stuttered, then closed it without uttering a word. He threw more twigs into the fire, then he looked up again.

"Was there any food?" He asked, softly. Neal shook his head.

"No."

"But you found that bottle. It's almost full."

"Yeah."

There was a small silence.

"Do you think I could have a sip?"

Neal looked away, the bottle held tight in his hands.

"No."

"Neal... The two bottles we had, you spilt. I gave you most of the water in the fuel tank because I thought you were having heat stroke-"

"I'm a cold, twisted person, Peter. I can't go around sharing my hard earned loot."

"Oh, come on, Neal! I wasn't talking about you. Clearly you were also disturbed and-"

"Really? What gave me away? The vomiting, maybe?"

Neal gulped down more Gatorade. Peter stiffened.

"Okay, I get it. I'm sorry. I freaked out, I couldn't deal with... I couldn't deal with that. There's a reason I work White Collar and not homicide. You must understand."

"I think that's beyond a cold and twisted person's scope of understanding."

"Stop! I said I didn't mean that, okay? I'm sorry. Are you seriously not gonna share? You know I need it, you know what it means if-"

"Would you share it?"

"What?"

"If you were in my position, if you had a chance to maybe make it out. Would you share it? With your criminal friend who screwed up?"

Peter shook his head, and raised a hand, palm spread open.

"Okay, I don't know where the hell this is coming from, but if you must know, yeah. I would share it with my criminal friend who screwed up. I would share it with anyone, and you know that! If I wanted to screw you over I would have stayed with Simon. I wouldn't have even gone looking for you or shared the water I got from the plane. Why don't you cut this victim crap already and assume some responsibility? You did screw up and I never once brought it up until now, I defended you when Simon accused you, and all I've done since is try to help you. So don't give me sorry excuses, if you don't want to share it's because you are selfish, and that's all on you."

Neal stared at Peter with his eyes wide. The Gatorade bottle shook in his hands, the liquid sloshed with a delicious watery sound, and it was almost painful to let it rest in the sand.

"Have your sip, then," he said, but his teeth were clenched tight. He wanted it all so much, so much. But he wasn't a selfish person. He'd never been possessive with anything, and he told himself he was stronger than the thirst. He wasn't going to let it win.

Then Peter grabbed the bottle with a thank you, and he brought it to his lips. He drunk with such delighted abandon, gasping with pleasure between breaths, that Neal began to worry. He saw the level of the red liquid falling, falling, and with each millilitre he felt his heart beating faster.

"Okay, let's save some..." He started, but Peter kept drinking. "Peter..."

"Just a little more..."

"Peter, stop."

Neal tried to reach forward and snatch the bottle back, but he wasn't as quick and Peter dodged him. He could tell there was no sense in reasoning with him anymore, he'd suffered from the same lack of control and he knew Peter had little awareness of the consequences of what he was doing. In his case, thirst had won.

"Peter, stop drinking," he said. He reached forwards and managed to grab Peter's hand. "Stop!"

Peter tried to turn, to instictively pull away from Neal's grasp. Neal held on. The bottle flew out of Peter's hand, spinned in the air, once, twice, and then landed tilted down in the sand.

"No, no, no, no!"

Neal threw himself on his knees, and picked up the bottle, but it was empty. He brought his face down to the shrinking puddle and he managed to taste the sweetness for a second, and then he began to swallow back sand. He coughed. He remembered his own lack of self control but that did not lessen the rush of rage and madness that he felt when he managed to stand back again and look at Peter. He gritted his teeth, breathing through his mouth, head thrown back. His voice, when he spoke, was bitter and hoarse. "You've just killed us both."

"Neal... Neal, I'm so sorry," Peter said. "I couldn't stop. I don't know what happened."

Neal scoffed.

"Guess I'm not the only screw-up, now, huh?"

Peter frowned.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, okay? But I… I couldn't help it. It's not the same as screwing up."

"Then why is it that what I did does qualify as screwing up?"

"It was Peter's turn to scoff. "I'll tell you how it qualifies. When I said you screwed up, I'm wasn't talking about your breakdown at the wreck, I can understand that, I don't blame you for that. I was talking about the conscious decision you made to pump the fuel and keep our course. That was your screw-up."

"Oh so you're back to that! You just screwed us both and you're back to that!"

"Yes, I'm back to that, because like it or not, that decision, which conveniently you have no recollection of, is the reason we're in this mess, and you don't get to wash your hands off that."

"You say that, and you just washed your face in Gatorade."

"You were the pilot, for God's sake! I asked you before we took off if-"

"You asked me. Oh, so you just need to ask me. That's all the responsibility you assume."

Peter raised his eyebrows, struggling not to give in to his frustration. He was close to progressing into screams.

"Why is it so hard for you to admit to a mistake? You know you made one, so why can't you just say 'I'm sorry'? 'I messed up'?"

"Don't you think I know what I've done? I know it just fine, Peter!" Neal turned around, his arms flailing. His face burned and he reckoned it was blushed. His heart was racing. "I know I crashed that plane! I know I killed Charlie... Simon probably as well. I know I broke your foot, and sure! I know I've maybe killed us both! I know I've maybe made El a widow! I know that! If I die here, that's going to be the last thing in my mind, there is NO NEED for you to remind me."

"There you go again!" Peter began to shout back. Neal realised it was the same shrill tone that had echoed in that empty warehouse when El had been kidnapped. That only made him angrier. "There you go again, because everything always has to be about you! So what, now you want me to pity you because you feel guilty?"

"I never asked for your pity. I never even asked for your forgiveness!"

"Then what do you want? Seriously, I'm confused now, what is it that you want?"

"I want you to get off your god-damn high horse! You knew I'd never flown a twin engine. You knew there was a risk of shooting during take off, and did you tell me? No. You knew that pumping the fuel was risky, and even then you didn't object. I told you going back to Simon was trouble, and you didn't listen to me. This is a partnership! When things go wrong, you're responsible too, you can't throw it all on me!"

"That's where you're wrong." Peter's voice was suddenly very grave. "This isn't a partnership, I am the FBI Agent, you are the consultant, and when I said, loud and clear, that you should veer East, it was your damn job to do it!"

Neal stood still, breathing hard. He felt his arms shaking and he couldn't control it. He felt a hollow in his chest where his heart was still beating furiously, and rage and guilt and frustration boiled in his head. All he wanted was to say something hurtful, and yet he couldn't find the words.

"Well, then," he said, after a pause. "At least that's clear now."

* * *

Peter closed his eyes tight and opened them again. His mind was telling him to double back, to rewind the conversation to safer grounds, but he remained silent, Neal's bitter words echoing in his mind. It was too late now.

He saw Neal turn, and pick up a pebble from the ground. Then he made his way back to the car, and leaned over the smooth metal of the driver's door. With the pebble, he began to scratch the metal.

"Here... lie the remains... of a family of four... found by Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey... on the 26th of June, 2014."

"Neal, what are you doing?" Peter's voice was still grave and low, and from where he stood he could only just make out the inscription in the light of the fire. Neal turned briefly, but didn't stop. When he spoke the words he was writing, his voice trembled.

"Close by... rest Peter and Neal... who crashed into a dune... because of a fuel tank leak... and apparently also because... the pilot... couldn't... do... what... he... was told. And so they are... still awaiting the... expedited... rescue from the... FBI. Nice job, Diana!"

Peter felt a chill run down his back.

"Scratch that off. Neal, why are you doing this? It's cruel."

But Neal acted as if he hadn't listened

"Peter Burke... promised... a speedy rescue. He... lied."

This time Peter stepped closer, grabbed Neal's shoulder.

"Stop."

"I'm leaving a record of our last days, what's the problem?"

"Neal, I am warning you..."

Neal turned to the last spot left untouched in the car. His hands were shaking badly but he managed one more sentence.

_"Peter Burke... leaves behind widow Elizabeth... because... he didn't... have the guts... to save himself and let the smuggler and the pilot die."_ He stopped then, dropped the stone, and looked back. Peter stood behind him pale and trembling, his fists clenched so tight it hurt.

* * *

**A/N: Don't hate me! I did promise a happy ending, remember? So bear with me! Embrace the thirst-fueled emotion! Any comments or cries of frustration, there's a box below. Do review! I love it when you do! **


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, but I hope this was worth it. Thank you all for reading, and special thanks to my mindful reviewers. I think of all of you in every word I write. **

* * *

_"Peter Burke... leaves behind widow Elizabeth... because... he didn't... have the guts... to save himself and let the smuggler and the pilot die." He stopped then, dropped the stone, and looked back. Peter stood behind him pale and trembling, his fists clenched so tight it hurt._

* * *

"So that's what this is all about," he said gravely, after a long silence. He moved his head up and down. "I get it."

Another pause followed before Neal spoke.

"Do you care to enlighten me?" he asked.

"You thought about leaving me behind... didn't you? You thought about it... Before we dropped the cargo. And afterwards too. You thought of trying to make it on your own."

Neal didn't answer. He couldn't deny that the thought had crossed his mind, it was a basic survival mechanism, and he had crushed it anyway. His brain was just wired to think that way, but he had not given in, there had to be merit in that.

"I'm not a bad person. I was thinking of Elizabeth and I would've thought you were too. You know I have no one."

"I didn't leave Simon. What ever made you think I'd leave you?"

Neal frowned.

"Why are you doing this? Is this a contest? You're trying to make me feel like an even worse human being?"

"No, you're the one doing that all on your own."

"How? How am I doing that? You left me burrying those people alone, you didn't even give me the courtesy of an explantation! I did all that for a Gatorade bottle that you drank and then dropped! Who are you to judge?"

"I'm sorry, I lost it! Same way you did, I couldn't stop! We've both had our literal slip ups, now, can we just stop this? Can we stop this? Can we scratch off what you've written in that car and just work together? It's the only way we're going to make it out."

Neal breathed in deep. His hands were still shaking. He wanted to say yes, let's end it, let's move on, let's stop being ridiculous. But some part of him, some deep dark confine of his mind awakened by whatever was wrong with him that he couldn't know, it kept him from just calling it quits.

_Because what if the two of them couldn't really make it out?_

_What if there was only enough water for one?_

_What if he came to a point where he couldn't walk anymore? Peter couldn't carry him. And he couldn't carry Peter._

One of them had to make it out. One of them had to explain.

But Peter would never agree. And as afraid of he was, he knew he would never forgive himself if he survived.

"'I'm sorry' just doesn't cut it this time," he whispered. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, his decision made. He thought of the delicious red liquid he'd barely had a taste of, he thought of the harsh words that had hurt him more than he cared to admit, he thought of the terrible situation they were in and of the terrible thirst he suffered, and he willed himself to turn around, and walk away.

"Neal. Neal, what are you doing?"

_Yes, Neal, what are you doing? What are you doing? Why are you doing this? You don't want this._

_Shut up._

"Don't follow me."

But Peter was standing beside him, holding his arm.

"Neal, it's cold. Stop this. Let's go to the fire."

"No."

"Neal..."

"I'm leaving."

Neal brushed Peter's arm off, and walked off, slowly.

"What?" Peter asked. Neal kept going. "Come back, don't be ridiculous."

"This is the only smart thing I've done since we landed here," Neal said, looking back. He saw Peter flinch. Then he kept on walking.

"You're not taking any water," Peter called after him. "How do you expect to make it to the sea? Look I'm sorry about what I said, but can't we just talk about it for a second?"

"We've already talked plenty. You can't change my mind, I'm leaving. You're your own problem now."

"Neal..."

Neal took one more step and then another. He started having seconds thoughts. What on earth was he doing? What has he trying to prove? He was a good person. He knew that. He didn't have to do this, didn't have to, and he was afraid, he was afraid… He knew he was acting emotionally rather than rationally, but at that point he decided that he honestly didn't care. He needed to leave. He was already responsible for Charlie, maybe even for Simon, he couldn't be responsible for Peter.

Three steps ahead, he paused. He could see Peter's moon shadow beside him. He had a brief moment of doubt and of grief, an instant in which his mind let him know that this was the last time they would be seeing each other, that if he kept going, he would die alone. But he kept on walking.

* * *

Peter watched Neal go with growing despair. There was the fear of being left alone, something he struggled to admit even to himself, and then there was the guilt about the downward spiral he'd allowed their conversation to become after he downed the Gatorade. He should've stopped it.

"Neal..." He called one last time, no longer knowing what to say. He couldn't understand what was going on, why this was happening. Neal paused, but then kept going, and Peter realised he meant what he was doing. He felt nothing but deep sorrow.

Then fifteen feet in front of him, Neal collapsed into the sand as heavily as if he'd been shot in the head. Peter rushed forwards with his breath held back, ignoring the burning pain in his foot, and in two seconds he was turning Neal around, his heart beating fast with dread and anguish.

"Neal... Neal..."

Neal had his eyes closed, his face plastered with sand. Peter checked for a pulse and found one - it was fast, erratic. Breathing was shallow.

"Oh, hell, Neal, come on. Wake up. Wake up."

He grabbed Neal's face between his hands - it was completely limp. He slapped his cheeks lightly, and then with more force.

"Neal! Wake up! For God's sake...!"

Nothing happened. He grabbed his own face, rubbing his eyes. Despair was beating fast through his veins. He shook Neal again, close to tears. He ran back to get the water and tried to get him to drink, but there was no reaction.

"Please! Please... Please..."

Peter grabbed Neal under his arms and dragged him to the fire. Using the light, he opened Neal's eyes and sighed with relief when he saw none of his pupils were blown. But worry crept up again. If it wasn't a concussion, what was it? Was it necessary for the pupils to be blown? Hell, he didn't remember. He wondered if it was fever, he touched Neal's skin and it was very dry, peeling at points, but it was unusually cold. He could hear the laboured breathing, could even feel it, growing slow, and he didn't know what to do. He needed to get help. He looked towards where Neal had said the ocean was, but he realised he would not be able to carry him there.

"Please wake up. Don't do this to me, please wake up..."

The silence that followed was crushing. He sat there, barely moving except to feed the fire, staring at Neal. He began to feel numb, like his face could no longer handle expression and his heart could no longer bare emotion. He looked up at the fading moon and knew what he had to do.

He used the tarp and the camping chairs Neal had collected to make a lean-to shelter over Neal, so that when the sun came he'd be in shadow. He took out a piece of paper he kept in his bag for kindling, and the pen he kept in his pocket.

_"I'm going to the sea for help. Please stay here! I will be back. I'm leaving you the water for the day."_

He folded the paper and stuffed it into Neal's front pocket. Then he stood over him, looked back at the blue-black dunes, and looked down again.

"I'm sorry, but I have to do this," he said. His voice shook. "You know the more we wait… I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." And he turned back, and walked away towards the west.

* * *

He saw the sun rise from the ocean when he climbed up the steepest dune yet, but his joy was clouded. In front of him a large expanse of small, wavy dunes stood between him and the shore, and they obscured the beach from view. He was close, less than two miles away. The sky was still black but the tip of the sun rising from the East was casting a greenish shadow over the dark blue Pacific, a bright line marked the beginning of day. To the west, he could see water, stretching forever down to the end of the world. He'd lived close to the sea for a long time, but still the view struck him. There was no foul-smelling river staining the deep blue colour of the ocean. There was no sky line, there were no islands, no boats. It was endless.

He stared at the horizon and could think only of eternity.

With a deep breath, he went on.

* * *

**A/N: Don't despair! Seriously! Trust me! This will come around. I promise on my word I will be quicker with Chapter 10, if I don't deliver within 6 days you are welcome to express your frustration in the comments. I'm having to sneak to an internet cafe in my lunchbreak to publish this since is blocked in my office. In the meantime, you can use the box below and make this terrible workday of mine a happy day indeed! **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: It is Monday, and so, true to my word, under 6 days I deliver you Chapter 10. I hope you enjoy it - thank you so much for reading! Special thanks to you reviewers and (you know who you are) those who have helped me out. This is for you! **

* * *

Peter counted three hours since he had left Neal. It was not yet six in the morning, and exhaustion had set deep in his bones, thirst stung in his throat, and every sinking step he took sent waves of fire up his foot - he could almost imagine, when he allowed himself to hope, what the doctor would tell him: _It would've been fine, if you hadn't kept on walking on it for three more days (or was it four?). _Even so, he had not stopped - not once, since that first glimpse of the sea. At first he wasn't sure why, but then as he toiled on he suddenly knew. He was certain of it, as certain as you can only be when you're too tired to lie to yourself. It was guilt. Guilt, because he'd left Neal lying under a shaky lean-to shelter, unconscious and alone in the middle of an empty, empty landscape. He'd left him with the promise that he would go on to the sea, go on to find help, and only now he was seeing it clearly.Only now he knew that he had lied.

He came to one final summit, just as the morning sun - still hidden behind him - lit up the sky so that everything looked light blue. Looking down it was still too dark to see, there were no lights, but instantly herecognised the faint shimmer of the ocean, much closer than before, and he could see the slight difference in hue where it met the sky. He'd made it, and joy hit him with such an overpowering force that he tumbled down the dune, yearning for the cold breeze and the rolling roar and the sweet smell of drying seaweed. He ran, taking giant leaps and sinking to his knees with each step, stumbling and rolling till the twigs in his duffel bag spilt out and sand was stuck all over his dirty, sweating skin. He laughed, and there was a mad streak in his voice.

It took him fifteen minutes to get to the bottom, but he didn't stop, not even then, he just ran on down the crunchy broken shells, onto the wet sand, on to the water, and finally collapsing as a foamy wave crashed against his legs and splashed all over him, soothing his skin and numbing the pain in his foot. He fell to his knees, and then he dropped on his back when the next wave came. He let it carry him with the backlash, dragging him over the sand. He felt more relaxed than he'd been in ages, finally he could breathe easy, but then a wave landed right on top of him, and salt water rushed down his mouth and he swallowed. He shot straight up, choked and spat out, but the salt taste scourged his throat. Cold hit him then - _it was so cold_. He looked up at the dune he'd come down, and it seemed to stretch into the sky. He knew then that he would never be able to climb it up again. He would never see Neal again. He would never see El, or Jones, or Diana, or his parents, or his sisters and cousins and every single person he'd ever loved. All they'd know about what had happened was what they'd find at the crashed car - a bitter message written by a dead man.

* * *

He dragged himself up to where the water couldn't reach him, and he rested on his back. At least here he could rest. He was shivering, shaking badly from the cold and the grief, but he didn't allow himself to cry. He looked up at the stars that still filled up the early morning sky, and he prayed. He prayed that Neal would never wake up to find himself alone and abandoned. He prayed that El never saw the message carved into that wrecked car. He didn't dare pray for rescue, he felt that was too much to ask for a man who hadn't stepped in a church for years, but he had one request he was willing to make.

"Please God, let it be cloudy today."

He laid his head back on a pillow of heaped wet sand, pulled his duffel over his face so his skin wasn't exposed, and he closed his eyes. It didn't take long before a heavy sleep overtook him.

* * *

He woke up with a start when ice-cold water rose up his back and threatened to drag him down to the waves. He raised his head and sat leaning on his elbows. He felt cold, but it took him a moment to understand how wrong that was. Then he looked up, and realised he couldn't see the sun, only its faint shimmer behind a blanket of white and grey.

He laughed, with his mouth wide open, and he felt in his tongue thin drops of rain. He reached for his bag and took out the remaining tarp, and still laughing he stretched it up in the sand and raised all the edges with sand to create a collection pool. Slowly but steadily the rain began to gather, and Peter watched it with fascination as he ate a remaining cactus pad. He felt new strength in him, and the prospect of climbing back the dune no longer seemed so daunting. He wanted to dance around his improvised water pool. He want to break into song. The weather was damp, the wind was cool, the wind...

It picked up, as if it had been summoned. When he turned he saw it rushing down the dunes behind the beach, it almost looked like a living thing coming closer and closer, a swarm of tiny yellow particles that hit him hard and almost knocked him off his feet. Two seconds later he remembered his pool of water, and he threw himself over the plastic, but already the sand was coating the water he'd managed to collect. He pulled the edges — he did it fast — and without a second thought he downed what water remained, hardly a cup. He shoved the guilt away, telling himself it was better he drunk than it was all lost, but still a bitterness remained, along with the sand that clogged his throat. Because he'd collected the water thinking of Neal.

_Neal._

He was lying under a tarpaulin held by a chair and a heap of sand.

And this wind…

_I never should've left him. I should've stayed._

He cursed in his mind, and then outloud.

_I need to go back. I need to go back._

He looked up at the dunes behind him. So tall…

_I can't._

He grabbed the tarp, and his bag. Looking around him, covering his eyes from the dust, he saw a large mound of rock to his right, where the beach ended in a series of rocky coves and inlets. He wrapped the plastic tarp over his head and started to run for the rocks. His vision was limited, but he did notice as he neared the rocks, that his feet crunched over more and more shells. Looking down, he saw they were all of the same kind - smooth, white clam shells. They were all large, open, and most were whole. Closer and closer to the rocks, they gathered in mounds several feet tall, and he knew it could not be a coincidence.

The wind came in sudden gusts for about an hour more, but then it withered and finally stopped. With increased visibility, Peter stared at the white shells he found himself surrounded by. He could see they gathered under every rocky mound, forming a sort of white ring around them. Peter guessed that whoever collected the clams crushed them against the rocks to open them, and then discarded the shells. There were thousands upon thousands of them, enough to suggest that clam gathering was a regular activity. There were people in this desert, after all.

He turned around. He thought then it was nothing short of a miracle that he was looking at the step of the dunes behind the beach, because right in that moment he caught a glimpse of a vehicle disappearing over the ridge, leaving behind a cloud of white dust.

* * *

**Hope you liked it! Do review! I'll be happily waiting for you to read through this while I write and edit (don't want the published story to catch up to me!)**


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